


a light shining in my breast, leading me through the dark

by janie_tangerine



Series: the jaimebrienne spite countdown to season eight [31]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (INCREDIBLY LATE BUT WHAT CAN I DO), (is anyone surprised? probably not), (she's not even in this technically but just in case), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bars and Pubs, Brienne of Tarth Has Issues, Bruce Springsteen References, Cersei Fans Please Abstain, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femininity, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gen, I Blame Tumblr in all the worst ways, Idiots in Love, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week 2019, Jon Snow Knows Something, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Other: See Story Notes, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Protective Tormund Giantsbane, Romantic Gestures, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Spitefic, The Author Regrets Nothing, Therapy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tormund Giantsbane Is a Good Bro, Woman on Top, past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “And how are you feeling right now?”“… Not disappointed, I guess,” she says. “What the hell did I expect. I’m disappointed in myself because I actually went. And — no, I just — I feel like shit because I hate that I don’t dress like I want or do what I want because of people like them, I hate that I can’t look at myself without hating what I see when I never cared until other people pointed it out, I hate that my father has to look at me and be sad when he has just me and I never want to give him reasons to be sad because of me, I hate that I know there are a few things I’m good at and I have to hear people laughing at me for wanting to pursue them even if I’ll do that anyway and — I feel like throwing up.”“Do you have to?”“No, I think,” she says, helping herself to some more water, and she’s horrified to realize that she actually started crying, and she nods thankfully when Stannis hands her a packet of paper tissues.She blows her nose, shaking her head. “There’s nothing healthy about that, is it.”Or: in which Brienne's looks-related issues don't pay her any favors and she does something about it.





	a light shining in my breast, leading me through the dark

**Author's Note:**

> ... HI GUYS, SO, this was supposed to be the last jbweek fic for 2019 and obviously I'm late... because lo and behold MONTHS LATER HERE IS THE LAST SPITEFIC TOO! yey! or better, I overestimated myself when it came to finishing it in time but anyway, for what concerns jbweek, this was for the last day, _winter's end_ and _hope_, and since my original Last Spitefic Plan fit it I went for it. Sorry for the lateness guys /o\
> 
> Now, FOR WHAT CONCERNS THE SPITEFICCING, and this is 100% the reason why I had the see story notes... this was out of this one anon that got sent to me specifically (yeeey ://) about a year ago when I was getting wank every other day (the wank that eventually started the whole spitefic project thing):
> 
>   

> 
> That happened because in another answer to a fairly rude anon I got I had mentioned that specific matter, and of course our almighty anon above decided that it was an appropriate question to ask and I might have gone off on them back in the day, but tldr: that anon did manage to piss me off on principle especially because a lot of the discourse on the other side was around the infamous 'terrible ugly jb shippers who project on brienne because they want to have a go at jaime' and it was basically undermining the fact that Brienne Has Issues Tied To Her Looks or that Having Your Looks Insulted Can Actually Cause You A Lot Of Damage, and honestly it's an argument that at this point I can't look at anymore without seething. So when I picked this for the spitefics - because it was a level of idiotic I felt deserved a place in the chosen thirty-one - I figured I'd just go and Actually Address It Properly.
> 
> As in: while in spitefic #15 I had recycled a few personal experiences for Brienne's backstory (without saying it first because that wasn't the point), in this one I partially recycled a way larger part of personal experiences I've had *including* some of the actual therapy part of it. Now, I'm not going to share what exactly I made up and what I didn't for obvious reasons except for the catalyst happening of this entire fic (which I shared on the original tumblr answer anyway so whatever), and obviously I adapted a lot of things to suit Brienne's character more properly, but tldr this is the most personal thing I've ever written when it came to fanfic and most likely it will stay like that because it was a cathartic exercise but it was not a walk in the park to write same as actually having Brienne's issues it not a walk in the park regardless of what some people seem to assume. Expect the first half to be exactly what it says on the tin ie Brienne Actually Realizing Being Called Ugly Ruined Her Life but don't worry the rest is the usual fluff. I mean, that was the least I owed her xD
> 
> Unrelated note: I had this half-planned when I started posting the rest in March and then I fell behind, but while I was finishing the others after 8x03 Gwen posted [this hilarious instagram twilight-inspired story](https://66.media.tumblr.com/34012a38303077fd0f9791f6da123865/tumblr_pqip8gRJa51toiuvb_1280.png) and since I had already planned on a nice solution with the Jaime vs Tormund debacle in here I figured I'd pay it a little homage in the end. ;) Also, to keep on with the theme and because lmao if I'll have to go personal I'll have to go personal, this is also choke-full of Springsteen references. I'll advise you to actually click on the Drive All Night link when you see it for maximum enjoyment. ;)
> 
> In the end: nothing belongs to me except The Above and tbqh it's hardly life experience I'd wish on anyone, the title is (ofc) from Springsteen, the rest belongs to grrm and the show sure af wasn't mine either. (We all wish!) Enjoy the last of the spite ;)

“Come on,” Sansa asks, “you’re not going to get anywhere if you refuse to _look_ in the first place, you know?”

Brienne, who has been sure since the beginning that this was the worst idea Sansa has ever had in her life, merely shrugs and looks down into her beer. She wishes she had stayed home, honestly, but saying no to Sansa when she’s enthusiastic is hard and admittedly it is a _nice_ summer evening and spending it inside the house doing nothing _did_ seem like a waste of time.

Just… she wishes the plan had been _anything else_.

“I never said I _wanted_ to go anywhere.”

“Crash therapy isn’t named like _that_ for nothing,” Sansa presses on.

“Sansa,” her brother says, “maybe she just needs to get used to the place or the idea or both, let her live.”

The last thing Brienne had thought was that she’d have to feel grateful that _Jon Snow_ trailed along with them to Sansa’s little project consisting in getting her to hook up with someone. Admittedly, he’s trailing along because Sansa declared that _he_ also has to hook up with someone and he can’t brood on his own forever, so she thought she’d play wingman for the both of them, and as much as Brienne loves her best friend, sometimes she really wishes she’d leave it enough alone. She’s learned her lesson a long time ago when it comes to hitting on people or people hitting on her, and it’s that it’ll end up with someone laughing every time and it won’t be _her_, but Sansa insisted and Brienne could only resist her up to a point.

“Fine,” Sansa says, “but we’re not leaving this place until both of you have at least a phone number.”

_Even worse_, Brienne thinks, and takes another drink again.

She feels ridiculous — she’s worn what Sansa assures her is her most flattering outfit, dark blue trousers along with a loose sky-blue shirt that makes her shoulders look slightly less large and her chest not as flat as it is, but it feels uncomfortable as hell, and the fact that Sansa insisted to do her make-up before hasn’t helped with the feeling of looking absolutely out of place, and — shit. She can just — soldier through the entire thing and divert her attention on Jon, who on his side hasn’t even bothered with the clothing; he showed up in old jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt that has seen better days and has barely styled his hair, but even with that, he’s fairly good-looking, she’s sure _he_ will score at some point.

“We’ll see,” she settles on, and realizes that her beer is almost finished and she’s nowhere near tipsy enough for this. Sansa’s Baileys glass is also almost finished and Jon’s bourbon is, too, so she volunteers to go to the counter and get another round just to get out of the forthcoming conversation that she’s _sure_ is about to happen. The one where Sansa tells her to look around and make eye contact and stand straight and look confident.

Yeah.

She _wishes_.

They both say they want more of the same, so she heads for the bar, orders another round, waits for the barman to show up with his tray and hopes he doesn’t have some witty line for her — usually she finds Bronn’s lines somewhat not atrocious because he always manages to say extremely _not_ politically correct shit without making her feel like he’s making fun of _her _and that’s why she likes this place, but today is not the day for humor.

Thankfully, he doesn’t, he probably sees on her face that it’s not the right time and he doesn’t want to lose customers, so she waits for her tray and hopes that when Jon inevitably scores Sansa will forget about her —

“Hey,” she hears from the side, and there’s no one else at the counter, so it’s… for _her_?

Shit.

She turns to her right. There’s a guy leaning against the counter in a casual oh-I-have-just-somehow-dropped-here way, and yes, he’s staring at her. Blue eyes, red long hair and beard but well-kept, shorter than her (_as usual_, a part of her says with resignation), fairly well-muscled, wearing nice clean jeans, boots and a flannel shirt, and she doesn’t know how the hell he’s looking at her, but — it’s not how people usually do look at her.

Or better.

It’s kind of how Hyle or Ronnet Connington looked at her _before_ — well. _Before._

“Yes…?” She replies cautiously, not moving and trying not to give anything out.

“Nice evening, isn’t it?” He asks jovially. Brienne isn’t computing this. People aren’t usually asking her things _jovially_.

“I suppose so,” she eventually answers.

He looks up and down at her.

What the _hell_.

She glances at her side. Sansa is giving her a thumbs up. _Shit_. This is not — this doesn’t compute. It _doesn’t_. Why the hell did she come alone instead of dragging Jon along?

The guy turns to look at the table and grins at the both of them, then turns his eyes back at her. “Uhm,” Brienne says, “I mean, if you’re interested in one of my friends over there you just had to say.”

The guy raises an eyebrow. “Nah, I was just showing I’ve got manners. I wasn’t brought up in the jungle, _and _I tend to like girls taller than me.”

_What the _—

“Sorry?”

He raises the other eyebrow. “Guess I wasn’t forthcoming enough. Hi, I’m Tormund, I’m here for the obvious reasons most people are _here_ and I’m not interested in her, I’m interested in _you_.”

Now.

He sounds sincere.

He _looks_ sincere.

Too bad that it’s not the first time people tell her that while looking and sounding sincere and _not meaning it_.

Too bad that the mere idea of a guy who’s… not exactly her type but still pretty attractive all in all would be into her and not lie is so outlandish she can’t even wrap her head around it.

Too bad that just thinking that he might actually _mean_ it is just — no. That doesn’t happen. She can’t conceive that it would. She should just tell him she’s not interested and go back to her table and stay done with it. Especially because if he’s making fun of her and she indulges him now, then it’ll get worse, and so she braces herself to just do it and locks eyes with him again —

Except that the moment she does he’s still staring as if he’s expecting an answer, with an absolute sincere look in his eyes and half-smiling at her, and it’s not the _same_ as Hyle and Ronnet, not exactly, and it’s just — not a thing, it can’t be, he can’t mean it, no way he actually is into _her_ or _taller women_, as if that’s an excuse that might hold up —

She’s laughing before she can do the smart thing and let him down without too many ceremonies.

It just comes out of her at once, without even thinking about it, loud enough that half of the bar turns to look at her, and she shakes her head as she tries to stop without managing, but it’s just — it’s just _hilarious_ to even think that it’s not some kind of misunderstanding or that it’s actually happening, and so she can’t not, and she’s spoken before her brain can think back on it, too —

“Yeah, thanks for the laugh, but I know there’s no way you mean it.”

Then she looks back at him —

And she immediately stops because the guy looks… _disappointed_?

“You know,” he says, and now he _sounds_ disappointed, “if you wanted to say no, you could have just done that. No need to _laugh_.”

And then he turns his back at her and goes back to sit alone at his table, looking like he _really_ wasn’t expecting it, and —

Wait.

Fuck.

_Did he mean it for real_?

A moment later, Jon walks next to her and clears his throat as she stares helplessly forward, her stomach clenching down on itself as she feels like she’ll throw up right the fuck now, her hands clutching the drinks.

“Can I say something from, uh, the male perspective?” He asks, and thankfully he sounds… not angry. Just… as if he gets it.

“Sure,” Brienne whispers, putting the drinks back on the counter. Her fingers are shaking.

“He definitely meant it. And he definitely feels like you were making fun of him. And — I mean, I get where you come from, but you didn’t need to —”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she replies miserably. “I really — I couldn’t help it. It never happened that — well. Anyone meant it.” She looks down at Jon, who looks… well. Like he won’t be an asshole about this. And fuck, now she feels like shit because of course the guy took it badly, and she must have come off like a complete cunt on top of that.

“Listen,” she tells Jon, “could you — I mean, just if you want, but — I can’t go and apologize, I’d — if I buy him a beer or something can you bring it over to him and tell him that I apologize for being a jerk and it’s not his problem?”

“Sure,” Jon says, and Brienne decides that he might turn out to be her favorite Stark sibling after all, if he salvages the evening. “Uh, just in case, do you want me to make sure he knows that you might be interested if he still is, or —”

“No,” she says. “I mean, after that, I couldn’t — and I didn’t even want to come out today. Really. Just, I don’t want him to assume there was something wrong with him.”

“Got it.” Jon takes his own drink from her, Brienne tells Bronn to just get him a second helping or whatever Tormund had before and pays for it, then sends Jon off to the table with the drink and when Tormund doesn’t tell him to fuck off, she breathes in relief and goes back to their own table where Sansa looks… fairly mortified.

Brienne hands over her drink, then takes a deep breath. “Listen,” she says, “I’m — I appreciate that you wanted to give it a try, but — please, let’s just call it a night when it comes to hook-ups. I don’t think it’s the case.”

“Of course,” Sansa agrees, biting down on her lip, and she looks like she wants to say something, but then she doesn’t and sips her Baileys.

For a couple of minutes, they say nothing, figuring that Jon will come back.

When he doesn’t, they look at Tormund’s table.

“What the _hell_,” Sansa gapes, “is my brother actually _smiling for real_ or what?”

Fact is: Jon isn’t naturally the _happiest_ person on the planet even if Brienne thinks his siblings exaggerate when they discuss how much he tends to brood, but he also doesn’t really… well, smile for the sake of it all of the time. Which she understands, for that matter.

Except that now Tormund is saying something and Jon is _openly grinning_ and they’re talking like they were old friends or something like that, and it’s obvious that Jon isn’t coming back to the table anytime soon.

Brienne _has_ to smile a bit at that.

“Well,” she says, “at least _one_ of us is definitely getting laid later. Cheers.”

“Look at that,” Sansa says, “I can’t believe _that_, but good for them.”

_Good for them indeed_, Brienne thinks, and drinks some more.

— —

_Half an hour later_, Jon drags himself back to their table to take his jacket. He’s grinning like she’s _never_ seen him grin in the entire time she’s known him. Sansa whispers that she’s kind of creeped out. Brienne thinks it’s sweet, but she says nothing.

“Uh,” he says, “if it wasn’t obvious, we kind of hit off.”

“_Kind of_,” Sansa laughs. “Come on, you look like you wanted to make out three years ago.”

“Well, he might have asked me over to his place and I think I’m going, but — Brienne, he says he wants to talk to you a moment. I’m gonna go out and get some air and wait for him, but — just, go. He’s not mad, if you were wondering.”

“Let’s hope,” Brienne says, and she — she wishes she didn’t have to, but she fucked up and she does owe the guy a talk, at least.

So she goes and sits down in Jon’s place just as Tormund moves his eyes from Jon’s ass as he leaves the bar.

“Hey,” she says. “Er, before saying anything, I don’t know what Jon told you, but — really. It’s on me. You did nothing wrong.”

“It’s all right,” he says, and good thing he really sounds like he doesn’t mind, “I mean, I _did_ get a phone number after all.”

Brienne snorts. “I hope that’s not all he is to you.”

“Oh, he’s _exactly_ my type. When it comes to guys. Anyway, I just wanted to — I mean, not that I want to presume anything and I know it might sound rude coming from a stranger —”

“Considering that before I was a complete jerk to you I’ll give you one free pass,” she interrupts. “Shoot.”

“Right. Listen, I suppose you’re not… standard or whatever, but never mind that I legitimately meant it, you _do_ realize that it’s really not healthy that if someone hits on you you the first thing you do is assuming it’s hilarious?”

Brienne is about to answer _that’s because no one ever hit on me seriously_.

Then she closes her mouth.

Because that would just — that would just prove his point, wouldn’t it?

Except that —

Shit.

_Shit_, he does have a point. “I never said it was,” she shrugs, defensively. “It’s just — until now people only ever asked me out as a joke. Or worse.” She doesn’t go into detail. No one needs to know about the specifics of that time Ronnet Connington invited her to his birthday party in middle school and proceeded to humiliate her in front of the entire class after finding out she had a half-crush on him. “I know I’m — not attractive. I know people aren’t into me. What was I supposed to assume?”

Tormund keeps on looking at her in concern for a long, long moment. Then he shakes his head and grabs his jacket. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “_I_ don’t think you’re not attractive and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be the only person around who would. Like, that’s taste. And listen, I get it, or better, I _don’t_ because that never happened to me, but if I were you I’d consider doing something about it because it can’t really do you any good if you assume no one might ever hit on you for real. Just my two cents. And now —”

“Oh, sure, please, just go and show Jon a good time, sure as hell he needs it. And — thanks for being cool about, you know. I was mortified.”

“Water under the bridge,” he says. “Honestly, it is. I’m telling you because I really don’t think anyone should assume that of themselves. Just, think about it.”

She nods and he disappears out of the door, hopefully on his way to show Jon the time of his life, and she goes back to her table, where Sansa thankfully doesn’t ask any questions.

She doesn’t think about that conversation until she goes back home.

Then she promptly spends the night awake thinking about it.

— —

The next morning, she’s staring down at her coffee, eyes bleary, feeling like she could sleep for a century.

_It can’t do you any good if you assume no one might ever hit on you for real_.

Fuck.

Brienne wishes she could just not care, she wishes, but — but that _hurt_, a lot, and she can’t quite pinpoint why, but Tormund had a point saying it wasn’t healthy, and for that matter she only has _three_ friends that brought along their siblings she considers such because that’s how it goes… because after middle school she just couldn’t stomach talking to people who wouldn’t talk to her first because she’d keep on thinking, _would they make fun of me, would they not want to be seen with me because of how ugly I am_, and so on.

She drinks her coffee.

She also never hit on anyone herself after Ronnet, but that went unsaid. She also never dared trying to wear clothing that was somehow… not even revealing, but what would pass for flattering on any other woman, because she knows it’ll look even worse on her and she didn’t want more people to think she was uglier than her usual, she —

Fuck.

She never _thought_ about it, but it takes her one long, horrible moment to realize how _exactly_ that mindset has fucked her over until now.

_It’s really not healthy that if someone hits on you you the first thing you do is assuming it’s hilarious._

He —

He was right, wasn’t he?

A moment later, she wonders if her coffee tastes more bitter than usual.

Then she realizes she about fucking _cried_ into the cup and she hadn’t even noticed.

For a moment she wants to throw up.

Then she realizes that maybe —

If it’s _that_ bad and she had barely noticed, maybe it’s time she gets some help, except that it would mean looking for a therapist, which — the mere idea of looking them up makes her stomach turn over in disgust, _except that_ —

She stares at her phone. She’s tempted to call Renly and ask if —

No.

No, she doesn’t want him to know. Also, he and Loras both got into the New York School of Design last year, which means that if she calls now it’s going to be some ungodly hour in the morning overseas, and — no. There’s no point. Also, she’s a fucking adult, she _can_ make a phone call. Good thing it’s a Friday morning.

She grabs her cellphone before she can chicken out, looks up _Stannis Baratheon therapist_ on Google, finds the number, calls it hoping that it’s picked up as soon as possible otherwise she might put it down —

“Doctor Baratheon’s office,” a male voice says, “how can I help you?”

Brienne _probably_ should have thought about it more before going straight for it, but while she’s been friends with Renly since high school, she thinks she’s seen Stannis by far twice or thrice at most because he had already moved out when she started being invited over to Renly’s place and they never talked fact to face, and she knows he got his psychology degree and three subsequent specializations in record time because you _would_ when you know his brother, she knows he’s good and she knows he’d never tell Renly that she’s — that she’d need —

Well, one of the reasons Renly got shit lucky in life is that he certainly won’t ever need therapy for self-esteem issues.

“Uh, I was wondering, I — my name is Brienne Tarth, I — I haven’t been referred, but I — I know his brother. And — I think — I think I could use talking to a therapist at least to confirm me if I need it for real or not. Would Doctor Baratheon have any spots open or —”

“Oh, he just referred a couple of patients to someone else. If you want I can get you an appointment next week and you can see how to go from there.”

“Yes. That — that would be ideal, thank you,” she says.

“Is Friday at three PM good for you?”

“Yes,” she agrees.

“Booked,” the guy says. “See you then.”

“Thank you,” she says, and the moment the call is over she breaks down in tears as she falls down on the sofa.

_Fuck_.

She doesn’t even know why she’s crying, but —

_Fuck._

She doesn’t even know what she hopes the verdict might be. But —

Well. At least she’s… doing something about it, she supposes. Maybe he’ll just tell her she’s worrying for nothing and she’ll have _that_ settled.

Can’t be bad _overall_.

— —

The next week, her nerves are just barely calmed down by the fact that the secretary turns out the kind of nice middle-aged guy who has most likely had at least three kids and knows how to talk to twenty year-olds who are about to throw up without making them feel patronized.

The moment Stannis lets her in, she feels like her legs will give out, but to his credit he doesn’t look at her like he’s surprised she’s in his office or anything.

“So,” he says after a long pause in which her stomach is too knotted up to say anything, “I _will_ admit that when Davos told me someone who knows Renly booked an appointment here, I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t remember seeing you around the house, though.”

“We became friends after you already moved out,” she says. “He talks about you, obviously, but I don’t think he’d discuss me with relatives.”

Stannis nods, and Brienne knows that those two don’t really talk, but she figures it’s not the right moment to bring it up.

“I assume my brother doesn’t know that you’re here?”

“No,” she says. “And — I don’t want him to.”

“It’s call professional secret,” he replies, “he won’t learn it from me. So, Davos also said that you wanted to make sure if you might actually _need_ a therapist or not.”

“That would be correct. I assume this is the part where I say what brings me here.”

“Whenever you want. Or I can ask you a few questions, if —”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I know. So, a week ago I was out with a friend and this guy tried to put a move on me. I, uh, laughed in his face.”

“… Just like that?”

“It was the first instinct I had,” she shrugs. “I mean, I’ve had people asking me out as a joke or downright making fun of me for thinking they were attractive, and — I know how I look. So — I assumed — well. The worst. Because I couldn’t believe that. And then it turned out he actually meant it, and — things happened and at the end I apologized for having been an arse and he took it well, but then he pointed out it wasn’t _healthy_ that I just assumed he wasn’t into me like _that_, and I thought about it, and — well. I figured he kind of was right. Then — I started thinking about things and I realized that he was more than kind of right.”

“… How exactly?”

She breathes in and tells him, even if she’s aware that she doesn’t most likely sound that coherent. She tells him that thinking back on it, she _does_ wonder if her looks will play a part in whatever interaction she will have with people, she tells him how they _have_ played a part in most of her interactions so far, she tells him about the bet, she tells him about Ronnet’s blasted birthday party in which she had worn this pink dress everyone made fun of her for and where she found out someone stole her diary and read it out loud and where he told her that she had no hope to find anyone who’d love her at all for how ugly she looked, and finally —

“What the guy said — that it wouldn’t do me any good to assume people wouldn’t ever hit on me for real.”

“Yes?”

“Well. I thought about it. And I realized that I never got as far as thinking _that_ because I’m…” She breathes in, not wanting to say it, but — but knowing she has to. “I’m sure that no one _will_ ever do it and mean it. And that if I did it to someone, they _would_ laugh in my face first.”

“You’re _sure_ of that,” Stannis repeats.

“I know it,” she shrugs. “I just — I _know_. And thinking about it, it sounds — well. I know how it sounds, too.”

She breathes in and out again, then looks straight at Stannis. He’s staring back, blue eyes that aren’t really the same shade as hers, but he looks far from _emotionless_, which is what Renly used to say about him in high school. She doesn’t know why those two never got along, but still —

He moves his elbows on the table. “I can’t say anything for sure when we’ve talked for half an hour so far,” he says, “but if you want me to be brutally honest —”

“Please,” she says, “and for that matter — I mean. I know that we don’t _know_ each other, which was why I figured coming here would be fine, but you don’t have to be… you know. Overtly formal. Just tell me how it is.”

“Well, I can tell you that what you just said until now made it pretty obvious that if anything you need to unpack a _lot_ of issues that I have a feeling you don’t really talk about often or think about often, and while I don’t think it’s anything that can’t be worked on, you aren’t wasting time if you want help for that.”

For a moment, she feels — she doesn’t know. On one side, maybe a bit validated. On the other, she had been wondering if it wasn’t just downright silly to show up here for something as menial as people insulting her looks. “Wait,” she said, “that — that means it’s not — I mean, isn’t it… kind of… a stupid reason?”

“There are no stupid reasons to look for help if you feel like you need it,” he shakes his head. “If _that_ is what gives you issues then it’s not _stupid_. However, I should probably ask you a couple of things before going ahead.”

“All — all right.”

“First, I wouldn’t have a problem taking you, as Davos said I have a couple free spots, but _your_ issues aren’t exactly my area of specialization. You need to be sure you’re fine with that. Second, if you’re not, I could think and refer you to someone else, and now that I think about it, I don’t know if maybe you would rather have a woman —”

“No,” she interrupts, feeling like throwing up at the prospect. She doesn’t know _why_, she doesn’t, but the mere idea of — “I can’t — I couldn’t tell all of that to —” She thinks of Sister Roelle, in kindergarten, who told her to look into a mirror instead of assuming others would find her pretty for real, she thinks of all her female classmates who snickered at her in _each_ single grades regardless of what she wore, never mind the one disastrous time she attempted to show up with make-up and ended up in the bathroom removing it in fit of tears before the day was even over. “The first person who ever told me I had to look in a mirror to realize that no one would ever think that I was pretty or that they’d be lying if they said it was a woman, it took me years to find a female friend and I met her because I used to give her sister extra history lessons in high school and I love her but she’s, well, _hot_, and she just doesn’t get it. I know it’s irrational but I don’t know if I can talk about this with a woman.”

“All right,” Stannis says, “I’m not going to lie and say you won’t have to figure out _why_, but one step at a time. This stated, I only had half the half hour today but tell Davos to book you the longer session next week because I think we need to go through what you said today again before touching the rest, at least.”

“Sure,” Brienne says, not knowing if she feels relieved or not. “Sure, I will. So, uh, I’ll — see you next week.”

“You will. And I’ll need you to go more in depth about _why_ you are _sure_ about people asking you out just for fun instead of just presuming it.”

She nods. She’s not looking forward to it, but — she’ll try. It can’t _hurt_, at least.

— —

“So, did you think about it?”

“I might have,” Brienne answers, not knowing if she wants to share the answer.

“And what’s the verdict?”

She shrugs again. “That I _know_ I look the way I look, which automatically means that if anyone was interested it would be — for my personality, not for my face. So if someone hit on me without having talked to me first, then there is no way they’d mean it.”

“And you are one hundred per cent positive of _that_,” he says.

“Yes.” It’s not like she’s lying.

“Could you tell how long you’ve been sure of that?”

She thinks about it. “I guess that until — I told you they asked me out on that bet. I might have not specified that — well. It wasn’t just convincing me to go on a date, it included convincing me to put out. I think at that point if I thought anyone ever would, well, _like me_, I stopped.”

“Like you, _aesthetically_, or like you, _overall_?”

She tries to _not_ laugh bitterly. “The first, sure. The second… I suppose I thought they would like me if they actually took care to talk to me. Except that then again I don’t talk to people first because I think they won’t want to talk to me because —” She stops, not knowing where that came from.

“Because…?” Stannis presses gently.

“I — I didn’t know I was going to say it. But. I don’t because I assume they’ll see me and wonder what do I even want because — well. I look the way look. Never mind that —”

Too bad that as she says _that_, she realizes something else.

“Did you think about something else?” Stannis asks when she interrupts herself and says nothing for a long moment.

“Maybe. I — well. I mean. If we don’t count the one female friend, her siblings and, uh, your brother and his boyfriend, I — don’t really think I have other friends. In real life, I mean. I do talk to people on the internet.” She’s in a few forums, she also has a blog and maybe she used to run a _Lord of the Rings_ fansite back in the day, and she’s on more than a few Springsteen mailing lists. She does talk to people online no problem. That’s _not_ really her worst issue.

“Is that easier?”

“No one can see me on forums, can they?” She admits. “Also — I mean, the things I like. It’s all… either genre books or music that doesn’t go further than the eighties, and everyone in school used to tell me that I liked old people stuff or that I was being snobbish, so now I’m just — I don’t even know if whoever I talk to would think the same, so — I don’t.”

He nods. “Can I point something out?”

“That’s why I’m here, am I not?”

“You said that _the way you look_ is the reason why you think people couldn’t find you interesting at first glance and at least half of the reason why you avoid initiating contact because you think that people will judge you preventively _and_ negatively.”

“Yes,” she says. She _did_ say that, after all.

“You also asked me if it wasn’t a _stupid_ reason to go to therapy last week.”

“I did,” she admits.

“While it’s still too early to say anything,” Stannis says, his voice turning _maybe_ a shade softer, “I would dare say that it’s really _not_ a stupid reason, if anything such as that exists.”

Well —

_Fuck_.

He has a point. He also hasn’t _said_ it out loud, of course, he couldn’t even if he wanted to, but —

“Let me guess,” she says, “being ugly _did_ ruin my life, didn’t it?”

Stannis glances at the clock on the wall, then at her again. “We _do_ have time for that today. I can’t say yes or no, but I think there’s something else about your question that we should discuss.”

“… Such as?”

“You said _being ugly_.”

“Well, I am.”

“You say it like it’s not up for debate.”

“How is it _not_?” She shakes her head. “I’ve heard it long enough. I don’t need anyone to lie to me about that. And I know it’s nothing you improve with make-up or different clothes.”

“Do you like the ones you’re wearing?”

“… What?”

“Your clothes.”

She doesn’t know why _that_ is important, but — well then. “They’re fine. I mean, they fit me. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“I asked if you _like_ them.”

“Even if I didn’t, it would be beside the point. The last time I put on a dress was when I was in middle school and my entire class laughed at me because of it. It was enough.”

“But you didn’t have issues with it, before?”

She shrugs. “No. Sometimes I think it would be nice to actually… well. Have the right curves for it. But I don’t, so there’s no point in considering that.”

“Back to what we were saying… _what_ do you think is ugly about you exactly?”

“Isn’t is _obvious_?”

“Even if I thought so, I don’t think telling my patients such a thing would be ethical now, would it? Indulge me a moment.”

She breathes in, wishing it wasn’t _this_ hard.

“I’m taller than — well. Most people, which is not really a good start. I — I barely have damned breasts, half of the people I meet think I’m a guy at first glance, the freckles are not the _cute_ kind of, I broke my nose twice, my hair is just — _boring_, my lips are too much, I guess my eyes are fine but that’s about it, I don’t have a single curve on me, I think it’s fairly evident.”

“Can I offer you a different perspective?”

“Feel free to, for what it’s worth.”

He narrows his eyes. “Would you say Cameron Diaz is _ugly_?”

“… No,” Brienne says, “but —”

“She broke her nose more than once, or so I was told. Also, would you say…” He thinks about it for a moment. “… That Uma Thurman is ugly?”

“Well, _no_, that’s —”

“She’s taller than most men, she’s blonde with straight hair and blue eyes, she might not have large shoulders but she doesn’t have large breasts either, and last I checked no one thought Angelina Jolie was _ugly_ because she has large lips.”

“That’s not the same —” Brienne protests. “All of those people are not — I have _all_ of those things at once along with the large shoulders. It’s _not_ the same.”

“Fair, but I wanted to point out that all the _single features_ you listed aren’t considered ugly _on other people_, so it does stand to reason that someone might find them attractive on you.”

She wants to object.

But —

“That’s — reasonable,” she concedes. “That doesn’t make me attractive.”

“That’s not for _me_ to tell you. It was the different perspective. Anyway, if that’s reasonable, then it wouldn’t be too outlandish that the person you met two weeks ago might have been interested.”

“He was,” she admits. “He was. But I — didn’t even consider it.”

“Maybe before next week you should think about _how_ exactly assuming you’re not attractive has impacted your life. But since we have another fifteen minutes and I don’t think it’s long enough for the discussion I wanted to have, so how about you tell me some more about yourself beyond _that_?”

Brienne doesn’t think he’s asking for courtesy — it sounds like he wants to figure a few things out. So she does. She tells him she’s wanted to be a lawyer since she was in middle school, she tells him she intends to go into some field that allows her to help people rather than just make money, which she really doesn’t care that much about, she tells him about having been pretty good at semi-professional soccer _and_ swimming in school before she couldn’t take being in teams where she was the only woman and everyone looked at her wrong even if she scored more than them, she tells him about what she actually likes to do in her spare time, including running the _Lord of the Rings _blog. He nods, takes notes, tells her that they’ll see each other next week.

She goes back home feeling like the ground is shaking under her damned feet.

She wishes she could just think that Stannis was full of shit, except that —

He has _one_ point, at least. If all those other _beautiful_ actresses have the exact same traits as her, why is _she_ the problem?

She glances at herself in the next shop’s window for one second, then looks away after one second.

She can’t fucking look at herself. She can’t.

Not now.

— —

Next week, she _has_ thought about it, because she’s not going to do this half-assed if she has to.

As a result, she enters the study in a foul mood.

“I thought about it,” she says when Stannis doesn’t prompt her.

“And what’s the verdict?”

She wishes the answer was different. She really does.

“That — that unless I missed something, I think it might have… affected every single human interaction I had that wasn’t about… my grades or school work or talking to people on the internet. Which is… I mean, I don’t think I need _you_ to point out it’s unhealthy.”

“Fair, I won’t. Now, back to what we discussed last week, you mentioned how you met the girl friend who brought you to the bar?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Can you go over it again?”

“I, well, I met her mother at the soup kitchen I volunteered until I had to put it on hold when I enrolled in university and I had to manage the workload. But I’ve been there since I was fourteen. Her mother mentioned her daughter needing someone to tutor her in history because she had bad grades, I ended up taking that job but one day Arya, uh, the sister, she was late, Sansa was around and it turned out we both had a crush on the same actor, so we arranged going to the movies together and — that was it.”

“Which means that if you quit volunteering at nineteen you had been doing it for five years throughout high school.”

“Uh, yeah? But I mean, it’s not — anything special. I got lucky, I wanted to help other people. Also, everyone thought I was eighteen because I was already tall, so it’s not like it was a danger or anything.”

“Yes, and you also mentioned that half of your bad experiences with just about anyone your age happened after you did help them out somehow.”

That’s — true. She nods, even if she doesn’t think she’s getting the point of this. “Well, yes. And everyone assumed I was an idiot for falling for it, but it’s not as if they were complaining when they did need the help.”

“And what do you think about _that_?”

“Then or now?”

“I’d say now, but you can answer for both.”

She shrugs. She thinks about it. “I — then, I just thought it was nothing new. Now — I guess they were assholes. But it seemed like… it just had to happen. I suppose back then I figured I deserved it for falling for it and never learning. Until I stopped talking to people, I guess.”

“And what do you think now about the fact that you thought you deserved it?”

She breathes in. “I guess — no, I — I know it was bullshit. I mean, you shouldn’t deserve getting shit for being nice, but I also guess that’s why I’m only nice to people I trust these days. And it’s not that many of them — fuck.”

“What?”

She doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry. “I’ve got trust issues, don’t I.”

“… I shouldn’t be the one telling you, but you _did_ get there on your own, so let’s say it seems like it, for now.”

“… Splendid. I guess that’s how I told myself I’d get better friends in university and I haven’t even talked to anyone yet.”

“One thing at a time,” Stannis says. “At least you established that, too, and you can take that into account for the next year.”

“If I even have time to breathe, since _this_ one was bad enough,” she sighs, and then it turns out they’re up for today because he only had a short window of time. Davos books her for a longer appointment in seven days.

She feels like she won’t eat for the entire day when she gets out of the building.

Shit.

_Shit_. She had no idea it was this bad.

And thing is —

_I’m afraid I’ve barely scratched the surface_, she thinks as she heads to the nearest bus stop.

And she’s not looking forward to get below that same surface at all.

— —

It’s a hot afternoon in July when she walks in for her eight session and feeling like she’ll throw up. It probably shows on her face because Stannis asks her if she wants some water.

She takes it.

“Did something happen?” He asks.

“Well, yes,” she says, “sort of. I mean, yesterday I told my dad I was seeing someone. About, uh, well. Everything. I figured he should know. And he asks what _he_ did wrong when he did _nothing_ wrong and he goes on this — he said that he could see I wasn’t all right and he hated that I was, and I told him that he had nothing to regret and it wasn’t his problem, but I just — I can’t stand that he tried that hard for his entire life to make me happy and now _this _is the status of things. And that was for yesterday, but then today, I, uh, there was a high school reunion lunch. I probably shouldn’t have gone but I did. Of course all of the guys who, uh, were in on that bet, now they’re having internships while being in uni part time and they came with their absolutely smitten girlfriends. Nothing was said about the bet, of course.”

“I take it went badly?”

She shrugs and gestures at her clothing. For once, she had put a peach floral shirt over her usual jeans rather than her band t-shirts and flannels cut for men, figuring that she _would_ just for kicks, it’s the only pseudo-feminine piece of clothing she had in her wardrobe. “I went dressed like this. Half of the people at the table snickered when I showed up and whispered that I was trying too hard to not look like a guy as usual, then everyone started asking what I was up to and I said I was busy with finals and whatnot, someone asked me if I still was in mind of being a lawyer for lost causes. No, not _someone_, it was one of the bet guys. So, in high school I’d have just ignored him, but this time I asked him if _he_ was a lost cause when I spent two months explaining him his own French homework before he thought it would be fun to ask me out to win money, he asks if I’m still hung up over that, his — his girlfriend gets the gist and looks at me and says that after all it’s not like I could hope to score with anyone else.”

She takes a breath.

“So I might have stood up, told them they were a bunch of jerks and that I hoped they never would have children or they’d turn up miserable assholes just like them and left it mid-things, and on the way here I wanted to rip this damned shirt off me but I figured it wouldn’t be productive. Also, I got endless texts about how that was bitchy of me and how I made them look bad for the entire place, as if I care.” She stops. “So, that was my charming time in the last twenty-four hours.”

“And how are you feeling right now?”

“… Not disappointed, I guess,” she says. “What the hell did I expect. I’m disappointed in myself because I actually went. And — no, I just — I feel like _shit_ because I hate that I don’t dress like I want or do what I want because of people like _them_, I hate that I can’t look at myself without hating what I see when I never _cared_ until other people pointed it out, I hate that my father has to look at me and be _sad_ when he has just me and I never want to give him reasons to be sad because of me, I hate that I know there are a few things I’m good at and I have to hear people laughing at me for wanting to pursue them even if I’ll do that anyway and — I feel like throwing up.”

“Do you _have_ to?”

“No, I think,” she says, helping herself to some more water, and she’s horrified to realize that she actually started crying, and she nods thankfully when Stannis hands her a packet of paper tissues.

She blows her nose, shaking her head. “There’s nothing healthy about _that_, is it.”

“Well,” Stannis says, “I think it’s _not_ unhealthy that you _hate_ feeling like that. It’s not healthy that you ended up feeling like that yourself, but this is the point where I tell you that you have to take into account that you might have at least a mild case of social anxiety disorder tied to all of the above, and that would explain why you have difficulties talking to other people.”

“Well, _great_,” she sighs, not that she hadn’t suspected, but —

“_But_ that’s definitely tied to how you feel about your looks, so you’re going to have to deal with that first.”

“Any suggestion on where to start?” She asks, hoping she doesn’t sound hysterical, but right now it feels daunting. “Because that’d be nice to hear. I kind of do want a life beyond hanging out with the same four people.”

“About _that_, I think you should have something cleared up for yourself before receiving suggestions.”

“Such as?”

“When your friend insists that you should score or try to find a hook-up, how do you feel about _that_?”

Well.

He certainly knows how to ask the right questions, doesn’t he.

“Uhm, I — I don’t like that she meddles with it. I mean. I love her and I’d do a lot for her but I don’t like people messing with, uh, my lack of romance options. Maybe I should tell her clearly, shouldn’t I.”

“Maybe, but is there something else?”

“I mean, thing is — never mind assuming no guy would be into me, I wouldn’t _mind_ the random hook-up. But — fuck. I’ve, uh, I’ve never. Been with anyone else that way. And everyone knew, in school. I mean, I was in some kinda study group back in the last year, I was half-tutoring some of them and so on, and it’s not like we were friends but we were _sort of_ on good terms and I knew all of them had partners and so on, and — let’s say that the last guy who still hadn’t done anything by the time we were eighteen at some point scored and he showed up informing me I was the last one in the club. I suppose it was the virgins club. Whatever. It was all like that. So _maybe_ I wanted what everyone else had — I mean, the dates, the handholding, _yes_, the sex, too, I have a libido, but then it seemed like it was even more shameful that I actually hadn’t found anyone to fool around with, and now — now I’m _twenty-one _and I look like this, even if it went well what am I going to do if I found someone who was into me, lie about it? Because the idea of telling someone that oh, wait, I’m actually a virgin on top of the rest, is — I feel like throwing up just thinking about it. So. I guess that puts a dent in my hook up strategy.”

To his credit, Stannis doesn’t look at her like she’s being a complete idiot or like he also finds it ridiculous that she hasn’t scored yet. “First thing, it should probably be said that this entire virginity deal is factually idiotic.” For a moment, it sounds like he _gets _it, but then he’s back to full-on professional, so she probably imagined it. “Everyone gets there when they feel ready for it, so I would _really_ try to not take that into account as hard as it seems right now. Also, knowing _that_, if you want some advice about how to deal with it, I’d suggest you to wear your current shirt more often.”

“… Wait, that’s it?”

“Absolutely _not_,” he says. “But as trite as it sounds, there is some truth in the fact that if you want to impress people or if you want to feel at least somewhat confident, you have to like yourself first, and, if I can be brutally honest —”

“Please, I think I need brutal honesty.”

“If I can be brutally honest, you do know rationally that you have a lot of good things going on for you, but you hate your looks to the point of self-sabotaging yourself, and you said the first day that you don’t dress the way you want, which means you’ll like yourself even less. So, the question is, do you actually like that shirt you’re wearing?”

“What if I do?”

“Then wear it, buy a few more like it and if other people complain, don’t mind them. You don’t mind them when it comes to go ahead in life with your job or your studies, so try not to care. If you aren’t comfortable with yourself at least some, others will notice. Actually, did you say your friend is… interested in fashion and the likes?”

“Sansa? Yes. Why?”

“Next time she suggests going out for things you’re not comfortable with at _that_ point, maybe tell that that you’d like to get yourself nicer clothes or shows or make-up or whatever it is that you _would_ want to wear and get her to help you with _that_. I have a feeling you would feel uncomfortable —”

“I do every single time I shop for clothes,” she admits.

“Fair, but buying clothes is not the same as interacting with strangers, which from what I understand would be an extremely bad idea to rush into _now_. It _will_ feel uncomfortable at first, but if you dress the way _you_ want and not other people want it might be a start.”

“So what,” she snorts, wiping at her eyes, “my summer homework is changing my wardrobe?”

“If you want to see it like that,” he says, “but it wouldn’t _not_ help.”

Their time is up then, so she stands up and wishes him nice vacations since it’s the last session before he closes for summer, and he shakes her hand before she heads to get her appointment in September with Davos, but then he clears his throat before she leaves.

“This is off the clock,” he tells her, “but let me tell you something… well. Not professionally. For the first and last time.”

“All — all right,” she says.

“Anyone who’d say it was _bitchy of you_ to just stand up and leave in that situation is someone you shouldn’t waste your time with. I know that it’s the category of people that always seems to leave the worst damage, but try to not give them too much credit.”

“I — I will. Thanks.”

“I’ll see you next month,” he says, and then she leaves the room and books the appointment and thinks about what he said as she glances at herself in the mirror in the study’s entrance.

She _does_ like this damned shirt. It doesn’t look that terrible on her. It feels a lot better to wear something she doesn’t hate regardless of how much she wanted to tear it out before.

Maybe —

Fuck.

Maybe he _does_ have a point.

Can’t be a waste of time to try, she decides, and calls Sansa.

— —

Sansa is way more excited than _she_ is at the prospect, and by the end of the day she’s spent entirely too much money, but then she goes back home and looks at her purchases, dumping them on the bed.

She didn’t get any new jeans and she’s _not_ even touching skirts, that was too much and she knows they’re not her thing, but — she got a number of new shirts with more feminine cuts that they found at some shop that for a miracle had some that fit her. Some have frills on the sleeves, a few have embroidered flowers, one that looked _nice_ even has lace at the hems, and it’s a lovely shade of turquoise that _did_ fit her.

Then —

She doesn’t know if she wasted money on the cherry pink dress she got in another shop after Sansa left which seemed to somehow call her from the window — it stops at her heels, _somehow_ it was long enough that it fit her properly, it has three-quarter sleeves that hide her upper arms and the waist brought up mid-chest, with a ribbon that ties under her breasts, and she doesn’t know if she’ll ever have the guts to wear _that_.

Still.

Still, she got as far as buying them.

She supposes it’s progress.

— —

Two weeks later, she can say for sure that while this will _not_ end her problems, Stannis _did_ have a point.

She’s stuck to the blue shirts for now, and only wore the lace one once, but — it feels good. It’s not that it changes much, but she _does_ feel slightly less miserable if she’s wearing something she actually _likes_ rather than whichever black t-shirt she hopes will make her shoulders look smaller.

On week three, she goes up to Sansa’s house because they should go to the movies this evening and she knocks at the door — she wore the lace shirt. Not that she thinks anyone will look at her, but that’s not the point.

Robb opens the door and says that Sansa will be down in a moment and then he takes a better look at her. For a moment she feels her stomach turning into lead — fine, Robb is one of the handful of men she knows (most of which related to Sansa) who never was an ass to her nor cared for her looks and actually sort of restored her faith in the fact that _some _men around who were not her father could be chill and not assholes on principle, but if now he says she looks ridiculous —

“Huh,” he says, “can I tell you something in, like, friendly confidence?”

“Sure,” she says. She _does_ consider him a friend, even if of the very casual kind.

“Wear this stuff more often. It’s new, right?”

_What_ — “Yeah, uh, I decided to upgrade the wardrobe. Does it look nice?”

“Admittedly, I don’t know shit about fashion,” and fine, that’s true, he’s dressed kind of terribly unless someone gives him advice since she’s known him, “but for what it’s worth, I think it’s cute. And it looks nice on you. Definitely better than your usual stuff that _I_ could wear.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

“No need to. By the way, _Jon_ says thanks.”

“For — oh, I suppose he and Tormund are getting along fine…?”

“_Fine_? I’ll be surprised if they don’t get married in the next year,” Robb snorts. “The match of the century.”

Brienne smiles in spite of herself. At least _someone_ got something good out of that fiasco. “Well, tell him I’m delighted.”

“Good. And keep on wearing stuff you like, it makes you look happier,” he says, and then he hears Sansa coming downstairs and he says goodbye before moving away from the door.

Oh.

_Oh_.

She had no idea she _did_ look happier —

But maybe it means it’s… sort of working? She doesn’t know, but she does feel better leaving the house wearing things she actually _does_ enjoy wearing.

Right.

Maybe it really was good advice.

— —

By the time August winds down, she’s gotten as far as buying sandals with _flowers_ on the heel, which — she usually tries to _not_ wear anything that shows her feet because she’s been told more than once in various locker rooms that they’re unfeminine and mannish and whatnot, but she did like the damned things when she saw them in the window and so she bought them, and they’re also comfortable, so — so far, so good, she supposes.

When Sansa tells her that Jon and Tormund are going to Bronn’s pub again and they asked if they might want to tag along, since she doesn’t hear _to get laid_ and she figures it might be a good chance to actually tell Tormund that he did give her good advice, she says yes and wears both flowery sandals and lace shirt.

Of course, no one looks at her twice while they go in, but that’s all right. They walk in on Tormund and Jon about making out while sitting next to each other in the double booth they’re occupying and they look so sickeningly sweet, she decides that maybe she shouldn’t feel _that_ bad about being such an asshole to Tormund anymore since she has a feeling that even if she had said yes to the one night stand, those two are a way better fit for each other.

On point, Tormund makes a show of thanking her for turning him down and she snorts and says that she’s glad her loss was everyone’s gain, and they actually have a nice time — they get a couple of rounds, the alcohol is good, the awkwardness is gone, and it turns out that Tormund is big into the American hockey championships, same as _she _is. At some point, Brienne notices that someone walks in, heads straight to the bar and asks Bronn for an entire bottle of _good_ Russian vodka, but she can only see their back from her position and since the guy has very slumped shoulders, she can only deduce he’s blonde and that he sounded miserable, but as it’s not her business, she goes back to discuss last year’s NHL games with Tormund and forgets about it.

When Jon says he’ll go to the bathroom and Sansa says she’ll get more drinks, she takes the chance.

“Hey, uh, I just wanted to say, maybe I needed the wake-up call.”

“Do explain,” Tormund replies, taking a last drink from his entirely too large beer.

“I, uh, you said that was unhealthy, and that was actually on point. So — I might have gone to see someone about it.”

“That’s why you’re wearing lace now?”

“Pretty much,” she shrugs. “I mean, I still think it was better that it went like this because you and him are adorable, but still, I should probably thank you for not keeping your mouth shut. About, uh, how much of a jerk I was.”

“Water under the bridge,” Tormund dismisses her, “and true enough, I’m absolutely not complaining about how it turned out.” Considering he’s openly staring at Jon’s ass, it definitely checks out. “But you know, lace looks nice on you. Or better, you look way less like you’ll punch me in the face at any given moment like this, and while that was very appealing, you also don’t seem like you’re waiting for half of this bar to try to murder you, which I suppose is… healthier.”

She wishes she could disagree.

Too bad he’s entirely right. “Point taken. Anyway, it’s — slow going, but I figured I’d tell you. So — thanks.”

“You’re welcome, I’m that much of a nice guy.”

She snorts and he laughs back and then she swears to Jon that they’re not flirting as he and Sansa come back with another round.

She doesn’t notice the blonde guy sending a longing look in their direction just before downing another glass of vodka at once.

— —

At the next session, Stannis immediately notices her wardrobe change.

“Did the advice work?” He asks as she sits down.

“A bit,” she admits. “I mean, it’s not like I think I look _good_, but… it’s nice to wear stuff I actually like. I mean, if people don’t like me anyway in _that_ sense, why do I care?”

“We need to work on both things, but I daresay it’s not a bad thing that you don’t care. So, your friend hasn’t asked you to go out for… hook-ups lately?”

“No. She insists that I should go shopping for make-up, but I’m not so sure I want to get as far as _that_, so — never mind. For now.”

He nods. “So, about what you said the last time we saw each other.”

“I said a lot of things, I suppose.”

“You did, but when it comes to the whole hook-up issue… you said you _would_ actually like a relationship.”

“I used to,” she sighs. “I kind of gave up on it.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “When people asked me out for that bet, they went — well. For the usual tricks in the book. Chocolate, flowers, nice cards, the likes, so now if I even just think about someone doing that for me I feel like mistrusting them at once. But that’s not the point. The point is that if I’m completely terrified of ending up with someone I’d like to date and having to tell them I’ve never had sex with anyone else I have a feeling the premises aren’t really that good.”

“Fair,” Stannis agrees. “So, do you want the brutal approach or not?”

“I think brutal works best for me, at this point.”

“Very well. Then keep in mind that if someone is interested and they’re not either a complete tool or completely immature, they will _not_ care about what you have or haven’t done before. In most cases, if they’re older than twenty they should have hopefully reached that stage. That’s as brutal as it gets, and I know it sounds most likely empty without having had proof of it, but would the guy who propositioned you have cared?”

“… I don’t think so,” she says. “But I should ask him. I guess we’re enough on good terms.”

“Then ask him, if he feels comfortable answering. Anyway, if someone makes a problem out of _that_, they most likely aren’t worth your time.”

Which — is a fairly sensed thing to assume.

Shit. She hasn’t even gone there until now.

_This next year is going to be ugly_, she thinks and doesn’t say. Then she spends the rest of her session spewing vitriol over every single arse she was in class during high school and at the end she comes out of it, if not relieved… at least feeling like she has half a weight off her shoulders.

When she walks out, she has a text from Jon. He’s asking her if she wants to come for drinks with him and Tormund later that evening.

She shrugs and figures _why not_. At least she can ask Tormund the loaded question.

— —

That evening, Jon ends up bailing because of something going down at work, but Tormund is there, so she figures she’ll bite the bullet and go for it.

“Hey,” she asks, “listen, uh, you’re entirely free to not answer, but — can I ask you something in all confidence just to, uh, prove a point?”

“Ask away,” he says. “I’m not scared of _questions_.”

“Okay, so, let’s hypothetically — fuck that noise,” she groans into her beer, deciding that there’s no point in dancing around it. “If I hadn’t been a jerk to you and you had found out I actually, uh, never had been with anyone before, would anything have changed?”

She stares at him, hoping that the message _if you tell anyone I’m killing you with my bare hands_ passes through, and he looks completely baffled for a moment until he puts two and two together. Then he takes another drink. Then —

“No, because I always strive to make anyone feel like having a good time if they’re fucking _me_," he winks and she rolls her eyes, “but I guess I’d have put some extra effort in it because if it’s the first time it should be good. What, is that so surprising an answer?”

“… Does it show?”

“You look like you’ve just seen the second coming, which you’re a bit too late for.”

She about spits her beer. “Hilarious,” she says. “Anyway, uh, try being told for years that the older you get the more people will find you wanting for that, then we can discuss it.”

“I think,” Tormund says, “that you need the crash proof that you seem to have an assholes magnet. Don’t worry, no one is going to know.”

“What —”

“Bronn! Would you mind answering a question for science?”

Bronn, who had been serving a blonde guy that Brienne is fairly sure had come in at least once before and with whom he seems at least friendly, turns to look at Tormund. “Shoot,” he says. “Sounds fun.”

“In the hypothetical case you were hitting on a girl and she said yes and before anything happens you find out you’re her first, what would be your reaction?”

Bronn shrugs with a _lot_ of nonchalance. Brienne is kind of — she doesn’t know what the hell to expect, honestly. She’s been here long enough to know Bronn has zero manners but isn’t exactly _an arsehole_, or a cunt, as he’d say, so maybe it won’t be a disastrous answer. “Giantsbane, that’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. I’d tell her she had excellent taste and proceed to make sure she doesn’t regret it, it’s not like I want anyone to say I’m a bad lay.”

What —

Tormund grins in a way that Brienne isn’t sure she likes.

“Would we mind doing a quick survey?” He asks, and suddenly she realizes what he means, and —

_There’s no need_, she mouths, but a moment later Bronn has shouted something like _every male cunt in this bar please share what you’d do if you found out your older-than-twenty one night stand was a virgin_, and —

She keeps to her side as Tormund goes around to collect the answers, but —

There are some twenty guys in here.

Most of them say that _they_ would feel obliged to over perform because no one wants to pass as a bad lay especially with someone who hasn’t been with anyone else before, a few others say that they wouldn’t give a damn either way but they’d be glad to know before the fact, a few others shrug and ask _so what_, one glares at Tormund and asks what the fuck would the deal be, it’s not like it’s a turn-on or anything, another says that it’s not like he’d stop being into someone he hit on just for that, and then they get to the blond guy sitting at the edge of the counter that Bronn was talking to before.

He had been staring into his tequila until then.

But then he raises his head, looks at Tormund, and Brienne can’t see his face but she can hear him, and —

“If you’re asking this because some friend of yours got that treatment, you can tell her that whoever makes fun of someone else for being inexperienced or whatever deserves to never get laid in their entire fucking life, and I said what I said. Bronn, I’m going to need another.”

“Your liver disagrees,” Bronn says, but hands him another glass anyway, and —

He sounded _angry_, Brienne thinks. The others sounded just surprised or confused.

This one guy —

“So,” Tormund says, “I’ve got to go meet my _boyfriend_ now, but are you satisfied with the survey?”

She nods. She’s still not so sure the answer would be the same if _she_ was the woman in question, but everyone did sound sincere, so —

“Thanks,” she says. “I — I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he winks, “you _did_ land me the date of my dreams after all.”

She flips him off, waits for him to leave, then looks again at the blonde guy sitting at the counter. He looks _miserable_, she thinks, his shoulders slumped, his left hand clutching the glass.

And he definitely was — not _surprised_ before.

For a moment her stomach clenches.

Then —

_What the hell do I have to lose anyway_, she thinks.

She stands up and drops sitting next to him. He doesn’t look up.

She clears her throat.

“Hey,” she says, and he turns towards her at once, and for a moment she wishes she had never done this because — because the guy is _hot_. Hot in a way her former classmates could dream of being — a face that seems sculpted out of marble, golden blond hair falling in soft locks around his face and touching his neck, bright green eyes, short beard that could be better kept, but the disheveled look _does_ suit him. Also, he looks maybe just slightly shorter than she is like this, and she’s bulkier but he’s not, well, half her size. In short: exactly the kind of guy she’s usually attracted to but that she would never talk to, on any normal day.

Still. She did, and he’s locked eyes with her now and he doesn’t seem disgusted at once, and — right. She can do this. It’s _talking to someone_. How hard can it be, if she ignores how her hands are sweating and how much she feels like throwing up?

“I, uh,” she says, “you know the redheaded guy who asked — that question before?”

“Yeah,” the guy replies, “and it was a pretty dumb question, but it also was a no brainer to answer. Why?”

“You might have guessed right. I mean, _I_ was the friend who got that treatment, so he wanted to prove me a point, but you were the only one who kind of got it, and you sounded like shit, and — I don’t even know what I’m doing here, but — you don’t look like you’re having a great time, so I figured you might want to know that uh, it was appreciated. That you answered like that.”

For a moment she feels like sliding off her chair and go back to her table because what the fuck is she even trying to do here, she has no idea, but then the guy half-smiles and his green eyes turn slightly less sad in the shitty light of the pub and her stomach turns upside down because if he doesn’t look angry he’s even — even more handsome, and he doesn’t laugh when he looks up at her —

“Case is,” he says, “I’m just out of a complete disaster of a relationship, if we can even call it like that, in which… the other party was very fond of reminding me how exactly I was lacking in each single thing except my looks.” He takes another drink, and _now_ she notices that the right hand is wearing a glove and is… well. He’s not moving his fingers. That’s most likely a prosthesis. “Then it got shot to hell and back after _that_,” he says, nodding at his right wrist, “and then I also found out she cheated on me for years. Cheers to me. Anyway, I’ve had years of — somehow similar treatment, so let me tell you, I know what I’m talking about. More or less. Anyway, uh, I guess, thanks for sharing. I mean, it _is_ kind of uplifting to get told you said a nice thing rather than — never mind that.”

She doesn’t press, figuring that if he doesn’t want to talk about it then she shouldn’t press, but then she takes a better look at him. He’s wearing an old leather jacket and some t-shirt underneath, and the light is shitty but since he’s turned towards her now she can see it, and —

“Is that the _Devils and Dust_ tour?” She asks, tentatively, nodding towards his chest.

At that, his half-sad smile turns into _delighted_. “Wait,” he says, “you’re into Springsteen, too?”

“He’s my favorite,” she says. “Not that I know that many people I can talk about it with, but — yeah.”

“How charming,” he quips back, “I could say the same.”

She’s about to ask him what concert he went to, then she realizes that she hasn’t even introduced herself, fuck, she never does this with anyone, she —

She holds out her left hand. “By the way, uh, I’m Brienne, sorry, I completely forgot —”

“Please, I did too,” he says, reaching out and shaking it. He has a nice, firm grip. His hands are rough. “I’m Jaime, and you already win points for being the first person I introduce myself to since that damned accident who hasn’t held out the right hand.”

“What — I mean, seems obvious?” She asks as their handshake breaks.

“You would think, Brienne, you would think. So, _[The Promised Land](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJx0HftF6Vk)_ or _[Thunder Road](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UDIDawmeeI0)_ for best harmonica?”

She about spits her beer. “That’s like, asking me to pick in between my favorite children in the remote case I would have any. I’ll say _The Promised Land _but that’s, like, painful.”

“I’ll allow you an equally cruel choice then.”

Huh. Are they actually _talking_?

She lets herself smirk. “_[Drive All Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uv2GUilKgM) _or _[Jungleland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lW1RAYYs8RI)_ for best sax solo?”

“Ouch,” he grins, and it looks genuine, and fuck, is she actually trading jokes with a guy who’s so attractive she could faint for it and who’s looking at her with something like respect?, “I’ll go with _Drive All Night_ because that’s my actual favorite song, but that one was really cruel.”

“You started it,” she remarks, thinking that it’s — it’s easier than she had thought it might be.

“Fuck me, I did,” he says, sounding surprised he’s actually having a civil conversation, too, and by the time it’s ten thirty in the evening she realizes they’ve been here talking about Springsteen for two hours and neither of them has gotten _more_ drinks.

“Shit,” she says, “I have class tomorrow, I should probably go, but — it was nice. Talking to you, I mean.”

“Oh — right, it’s late. No problem, uh, I could say the same —”

“And since he’s a cunt without any sense of interpersonal relationships,” Bronn interrupts, “I’ll inform you that if you want to make me die of boredom discussing the merits of going on vacation to fucking Asbury Park, he’s here about every other evening drowning his sorrows. You’re welcome.”

“Don’t mind him,” Jaime groans, “but —”

“Hey,” she says, not wanting him to think that Bronn somehow jinxed things, “it was nice. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

“… Oh. Right. Well — I’ll be here,” he says, sounding fucking _surprised_, and Brienne can’t really put two and two together because people don’t look surprised _she_ would want to meet them again, but —

Never mind.

She knows where to find him.

Just in case.

— —

Then Jon breaks a leg in a motorcycle accident a week later — not his fault, it was the other guy’s, and thankfully that’s about everything there is to it, _but_ of course that benches him for the next month at least and he needs to be in the hospital for a while for physiotherapy, and not long later he sends Brienne a text saying _please drag Tormund out once in a while or I’ll feel bad because he spends all the time here and as much as he says he doesn’t mind there is a limit to how much I can feel guilty because he’s coped up here_, and so they end up going back to Bronn’s together for friendly drinks more than once. Not that Tormund stays long because he always thanks her but then _has to check back on Jon outside visitor hours_ because he somehow bribed a nurse to get in, but they do end up sitting together for a while every couple of days or so.

Jaime, she notices, is always there.

He always looks plenty miserable.

The first two times she just says hi and goodbye, but the third he looks _really_ worse off for wear and so when Tormund goes for his outside visitor hours check, she breathes in, gathers her guts, finishes her beer and goes to the counter.

“Shit day?” She asks, figuring that she’ll just sound awkward if she tries to make small talk before.

“Oh, a complete disaster,” he says, staring down into his half-drunk Jack Daniels glass, “and I’m this close to get alcohol poisoning if I order the entire bottle, so if you have something to distract me with I’d be delighted to hear you out.”

Thing is: he sounds self-deprecating. _Very much so_. But it’s not directed at _her_.

She breathes in again.

“I don’t know, you could talk to me about what you think we should find in the second _Tracks_ compilation, if it ever is released.”

“Oh, you _do_ know how to distract a guy,” he says, and shit, he _means_ it? “Let me think. I need an entire record to be the electric _Nebraska_, because we all know that exists. And that’s not negotiable.”

“I wouldn’t negotiate,” she says, “I absolutely agree.”

“Cheers to your impeccable taste, Brienne,” he says, clinking his glass against hers and finishing it, but —

He doesn’t order another.

Bronn has to kick them out at closing time because they actually _did_ spend three hours putting together their ideal four-cds follow-up compilation, and when they get out in the street, Jaime tells her to send it to the official Facebook page, maybe they’d gain free concert tickets for it.

She laughs, and then tells him she’ll see him around, and he says sure, and she thinks he whispers _I hope so_ under his breath, but she could be wrong.

So she watches him head home and doesn’t even try to deny to herself that she’s into him.

Not when her chest has about felt like it was expanding three sizes every damned time their eyes met, never mind the butterflies in her stomach, never mind her heartbeat getting faster and faster —

But she thinks she’ll keep their interactions friendly, just in —

Wait.

_Wait_.

Fuck, that’s really not what she should start assuming now, is it?

She takes another deep breath.

The next session is going to be _hilarious_.

— —

“So,” Stannis says, “you like this guy.”

Shit, why did she ever agree with the brutal approach?

“I — maybe. Sort of. I don’t know. I mean, I’m _definitely_ attracted to him. We can be sure of that, at least.”

“What about the rest?”

“I don’t — I mean, we talked for real what, twice? But it was a lot. I mean, it was — easy. Easier than average. He’s obviously — not _fine_, so I don’t know if he’s desperate for —”

“Most people who don’t want to talk to someone find an excuse and don’t show up near them. It’s not a good idea to start thinking he must be faking it when you have no reason to assume that, unless you do.”

“No, I — I don’t. All right. Yeah. Fine. I was doing that again. Shit. Anyway, he’s — I can’t say he wouldn’t be an option. In an ideal world. It’s just — he really doesn’t look like he’s interested in relationships in general right now.”

“Are you saying that because you _know_ or because you want a reason to _not_ put a move on him?”

She laughs. “No, that’s plenty obvious. The first time he did talk about being just out of a disastrous relationship. I swear it’s not me finding excuses.”

“All right, let’s not touch that _for now_. But we can presume that you want at least to be friends with him?”

“That… would be nice. I mean, I usually don’t… click so fast with people.”

“Then I suppose keeping on doing what you’re doing would be a good course of action. That said, I wouldn’t rule out _not_ acting on said attraction if you feel like he would be up for it.”

“Yeah, maybe — maybe in a while. I’m already overwhelmed with just being _friends_, I think.”

“Try to get adjusted to that, then. But don’t rule it out altogether.”

Brienne thinks he’s being a tad too optimist.

She’s _almost_ glad to move the conversation over to how much she loathed Sister Roelle in kindergarten, even if thinking about her makes her skin crawl.

— —

Summer fades into autumn for good and things don’t really change — she hangs out with Tormund regularly until Jon gets discharged, she always takes care to at least talk to Jaime for a while before leaving the pub and that’s really not hard, not when he seems to be there all the time, and she can’t help noticing that he _does_ look overjoyed to have their conversations but at the same time he still looks miserable when she comes in and when she leaves.

A few times she overhears him talking to someone else on the phone — once he says that he doesn’t need whoever’s on the other side to worry while Bronn openly rolls his eyes, a few others he doesn’t even finish the call before closing it in the caller’s face as he says that no, he’s not changing his mind.

Her hands itch — she feels like she should do something, but she barely knows him, and Tormund figures her out in three seconds one evening where Jaime looks particularly on his way to wasted and he’s not at the Starks’ because Jon pretty much roped him into _not_ getting bored watching tv every other evening.

“Am I wrong,” he whispers, “or you’re eyeing him?”

“… Is it even worth it to deny it?” She shrugs, looking back at Tormund and not noticing that Jaime has just glanced at them before asking Bronn for more alcohol.

“Well, well, _well_,” Tormund grins, and Brienne decides she’s really, really scared right now, “he _was_ adequately angry when I went around for that little survey. Wait, you two are friendly, aren’t you?”

“… I guess,” she says, “I mean, for my standards, yeah. I just — he said he’s out of a bad break-up and I can see he’s really… not doing well, but it’s not like I can ask. We’re not… _that_ friendly.”

Tormund looks at her, then at Jaime, then back at her. “Do you want the approved male advice?”

“Please,” she nods at once, “I have no fucking clue how to go about this.”

“Well, most times being a guy you grow up thinking that _you_ should take the initiative with everything. Also no one tells you to actually talk to people if you feel bad, which is all crap, but never mind that. He obviously looks like shit and I guess you don’t want to come across as overbearing?”

“Please, _no_.”

“Well, you have interests in common, I gather.”

Brienne thinks of how Jaime’s eyes seem to light up when they’re sitting at the counter and discussing the merits of the few good songs on _Human Touch_. “Yeah,” she says. “Quite some.”

“Right, get him something nice which is also not _too much_ that might look like something you did casually and when he’s most likely flattered by the thought, catch the chance and see if you can get _more_ friendly.”

Brienne thinks about it. It’s not _bad_ advice, she supposes.

“You know,” she says, “you need a new career into answering love letters for some magazine, you’d do great.”

“I live for defying gender expectations,” he says, clinking his glass against hers. “I’m expecting news.”

“Sure,” she smiles back, and when later she goes up to Jaime to at least tell him goodnight, she notices that he looks a bit _resigned_, to — she doesn’t know what.

But — never mind that.

She goes back home, thinking over what Tormund said, and —

Her eyes fall over the package that she just got yesterday.

Oh.

Maybe — maybe she _does_ have something that might work.

— —

She goes to the pub the next evening, sitting right next to him after a hellish day where she had five classes in the span of eight hours and has learned that she has to do bloody team work for at least two of them. _He_ looks more wiped out than she feels, though, but when she says hi he looks… pleased to see her. What the hell.

He also looks like he’s cried for the past three hours.

“Hey,” she says, “I — well, not to presume anything, but you do know they’re officially releasing Springsteen concerts through his website, right?”

“Sure I do, though I haven’t managed to keep track these days. Why?”

“I, uh, I got myself some a while ago.” She doesn’t say that after a particularly grueling session with Stannis she felt like she _had_ to get herself something nice and ended up spending a hundred quid on physical copies of said releases. “And I got them in the mail yesterday. One was the New Year’s Eve —”

“Wait,” he says, suddenly sounding excited, “the [Uniondale ‘80 New Year’s Eve show](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nassau_Coliseum,_New_York_1980)?”

She grins, unable to stop, and she nods as she slides a mastered copy she made yesterday his way. “I thought you might want it, if you didn’t have it already, so I just — copied it.”

He looks at her like he can’t quite compute it before he grabs the CDs and turns them over. He opens his mouth, closes it, then looks at her again. “Seriously? Just like that?”

She shrugs. “Well, I don’t know anyone else who actually might be interested in my copies of Springsteen bootlegs,” she says. “You looked like you could use it.”

“Oh, I _could_ have,” he says, slipping the CDs into the pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, I —” He starts, and then his phone vibrates and she can see color draining from his face. Then he shakes his head and takes the call, mouthing _sorry_ in her direction. “I told you I’m done,” he says, “will you fucking _stop_ changing number every time I block yours? No, I’m not coming back. No, I don’t care that Father cut me off, I’ll survive. And I still said no, learn to take it for an answer for once in your damned life.”

Brienne says nothing, realizing that it’s not the kind of conversation anyone should intrude on, but then she sees that his wrist is shaking like there’s no tomorrow, he looks like he’ll throw up at any moment and his eyes just went a duller shade of green as he looked down at the counter, and then —

“Please, just stop,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to cry or _something_, and then his left starts shaking hard enough that he drops the phone and it doesn’t crash on the ground just because Brienne takes it.

Suddenly, she hears a female voice coming from the receiver, saying _Jaime, Jaime, don’t you dare hang up on me_, and he looks like he _will_ throw up —

“Hi,” she says, bringing the phone to her ear.

“And who is _this_,” a female voice says from the other side.

“No matter. I’m at the bar your brother’s at and he’s definitely not interested in finishing this conversation. Feel free to not call back.”

Then she closes the call in whoever-it-was’s face, and when the phone vibrates again a moment later, she turns it off for good.

When she raises her stare, Bronn is looking at her with something like respect.

Jaime is taking shallow breaths all over with cold sweat running all over his face.

“I’ll just — get him out for some air,” she says.

“Yeah, go ahead, he needs it,” Bronn shoos her out, and Brienne drags him out bodily until they’re in the cold autumn air and he’s breathing in deeper again, clutching to her arm, and then —

“Fuck,” he says, “I — I think I need to throw up.”

Considering that he was halfway into the Jack Daniels bottle he had next to his glass, Brienne imagines that he has to.

“All right,” she says, dragging him towards the nearest alley corner and holding his head upwards while he spends the next five minutes vomiting the whole amount of alcohol he had most likely drunk before and no food at all. She resolves to get him to eat something when they’re inside. “Shit,” he says when he’s obviously done, “this isn’t a good coping method.”

“What, binge drinking?”

“My brother used to swear by it, back before he also cut off contact with half of the family. I don’t think I can handle it that much longer,” he laughs, bitterly, and then — “And now I’ve come off like a complete lunatic, haven’t I?”

She shakes her head. “You’re coming off like you need a vacation or at least a full evening listening to the Uniondale New Year’s Eve show, I think. That — that your ex?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “except I wish she was _just_ my ex.”

Brienne has a feeling this might be more than she bargained for, except that he really looks like he needs to talk to someone, and she dares put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” he blurts, “would you listen if you knew she’s also my twin sister?”

Admittedly, the moment she hears it, her stomach turns over on itself again, because — his _twin sister_, how does that even _happen_, but after that first second of complete surprise, she notices that he’s looking at her like he’s expecting her to bail, and she thinks of what just happened and of how he looked like he was about to have a panic attack at the counter and of how since she’s known him he’s looked on the brink of a nervous breakdown, and —

“What if I’m not the kind of judge that would take a man’s life for the thoughts are are in his head without having heard them?” She asks, and at _that_ he sort of smiles, halfway relieved. “But I’m not going to lie, that sounds massively fucked up.”

“Oh, it _was_ massively fucked up. It’s never not been massively fucked up. But really, if you don’t want to, I’m not —”

“I thought the question was about whether _you_ wanted to,” she says, and he wraps his jacket tighter around him as he looks resolutely up ahead and tells her that he doesn’t even remember when the relationship in question _started_, that he never thought his sister was wrong when they were children and she’d tell him they were the same person in two different bodies, that he never thought they _weren’t_ even if thinking back on it he never behaved like her unless he was _with _her —

Then he stops, breathes in, says that she somehow managed to make sure to make burned ground around him and the one time one of _her _friends turned out to have a crush on him she about made sure she moved schools for how she had ruined her life after finding out, and after then he just stopped talking to anyone else just in case, and then after high school he wanted to go to some journalism school but that got shut down because it was apparently _wasted time_ and he ended up doing PR for his father’s company, which he hated —

And all along he never had eyes for anyone else, he says as if he regrets it —

Then he shrugs, raises up a hand, says that he lost it because one of the company drivers showed up not at all sober but somehow his father never fired _that_ specific guy even if it was a normal occurrence, the car ended up in a crash, the driver came out of it unscathed, he didn’t and after losing the hand it turned out that his sister was getting married to some other guy in order to do a company merge —

“Imagine that,” Jaime sighs, “I did an internship for the guy’s father once and — the less said the better. He was completely out of control and he’d treat you so horribly you’d feel like dirt at the end of every given day, also you could hear that he hit both of his younger kids every time they visited, beyond close doors, of course, and — I might have slipped an anonymous call to a newspaper, back in the day.”

“Wait,” Brienne interrupts, “_Aerys Targaryen_?”

“Yeah,” Jaime agrees, “and now Cersei’s marrying his eldest son to _make up for it_, except that then it turns out she actually had been hoping for it all along since we were kids, and then my brother informed me that maybe it was time I knew she actually had been with half of the company for whichever reasons, and then she behaved as if she’d expected that I’d just — stay on the side and wait for her if her marriage went wrong.” He laughs. “Turns out, I do have a bit of self-esteem left, so I said fuck to everyone, took my earnings only and left, which means that I suppose I can survive for a couple of years without needing immediate employment, but hey, they _did_ cut me off completely, so good luck to me.”

He shrugs, taking a breath, then he looks back up at her like he’s expecting her to bail.

Brienne isn’t even sure she processed the entire story.

Some part of her is saying, _do you know what you’re getting into_.

But another, bigger part of her, says that bailing when someone just bared their soul at you like that would be an asshole move.

And overall, she doesn’t think she _wants_ to bail.

“I can’t judge you for wanting to destroy your liver on account of all that,” she finally says, and he laughs in half-relief, obviously not having expected it —

“Yeah, it’s not working out too well.”

“In all seriousness,” she says, “it sounds like you need to clear your head more than destroying your liver, but you’re trying, so don’t knock yourself down too much.”

“You know,” he says, “not counting my brother, as in, the only person I talk to that I’m related to these days, you’re… the first person who ever thought about giving me something nice just for the sake of it.”

“You mean, the record?”

He nods. “Yeah. I mean, the downsides of not having friends that aren’t your sister’s first _if_ they even care about you instead of getting to her, and of your father only caring about what you can do for him, I guess. That was why I couldn’t believe it, back inside.”

Brienne has a feeling that she might be having a crush on the one person she’s met who’s even _less_ socially inept than she is.

Not that it’s his fault, same as… it’s not _hers_, right?

“I guess I’ll need to give you copies of the other six ones I binge-bought this month, then.”

He smiles tentatively. “Huh. Nice. I might want them.”

“Hey, I have the Trenton ’05 bootleg with _[Songs for Orphans](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkAei555KP8)_, I think —”

“Scratch that, I _do_ want it. Desperately. Do I have to bribe you?”

She laughs, shakes her head. “No,” she says, “I’m that nice, I won’t need bribing. Also, you’re freezing, you know that?”

He shrugs, his teeth chattering. “True enough. I didn’t check the weather before leaving the house.”

She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing as she takes off her coat and puts it on his shoulders — he breathes in, as if he’s realizing now how sharp the difference is, and then he moves closer —

“You’re _warm_, you know that?”

“I haven’t left without a coat,” she says, and he laughs a bit but then it turns into a crying fit, and she has no idea of how she ends up with her arms around him in the chilly wind outside the pub, but she figures he needed it and fuck, _fuck_, how did she end up with a guy she’s absolutely and utterly into crying on her shoulder outside the damned pub they visit all the time?

Each of the romcoms she’s seen in her life (more than she’d care to admit) said nothing about how to act when _you_ aren’t the person who needs comforting, and it’s usually guys doing it for girls, not the contrary —

Right.

She’s overthinking this.

She pulls him closer and lets him get it out of his system, then swears that she won’t tell a soul and offers to get him an alcohol-free drink inside as long as they get back before they both freeze.

He says yes, looking at her like he can’t quite believe it went… well, that it didn’t end with her leaving him in the middle of the sidewalk the moment he dropped the truth bomb.

She shakes her head and goes back inside, and she decides that if the both of them are terrible at this, at least it means they’ll figure it out together.

— —

The next day, after her classes, she _does_ spend a good three hours copying an unholy amount of bootlegs.

The day after, Jaime is not at the pub, and when Tormund about pushes her almost bodily to ask Bronn, Bronn looks at her like he knows what’s going on and like he finds it absolutely hilarious.

“His brother informed me that he’s on alcohol detox, which is probably a good thing, but if you want to leave a message to our favorite golden cunt, feel free to.”

She rolls her eyes. “Actually, yes.” She takes out the Trenton bootleg, then opens the first CD and writes down her cellphone without thinking about it on the inside of the cover, then she closes it. “Can you give this one to him and tell him that if he wants the others he can call?”

“Sure thing,” Bronn says, looking like he’s about to erupt in gigglefits.

She goes back to her table and drops down on the seat. “Okay, I need tequila,” she says.

Tormund says nothing and gets her a glass.

Brienne downs half of it in one go.

— —

Jaime texts her the next day. She has to decipher the abbreviations and read it twice, but the basic message is that she deserves a monument and _does she have more_?

She smiles in spite of herself.

_There’s a coffee shop in front of my uni building. I can bring the others there when I’m done with classes_.

He texts back ten seconds later.

_Deal._

_Addrss. Hr._

She’s texted both and the time she’s done with classes tomorrow before she can think about it, and she’s grinning when she’s sent the message, and —

She looks at herself in the mirror — her cheeks are flushed, and oh, her heartbeat went up, didn’t it —

Shit.

She _really_ has it bad, doesn’t she?

— —

“So, he showed up at the coffee shop?” Stannis asks.

“Uh, yeah. On time. He complained a bit about how he felt old in between freshmen but he didn’t really mean it, I think. He also said he’s trying to quit moping over alcohol so he might not be around in the evenings at that pub as often, but he’s more than amenable to hang out otherwise, unless _I_ get bored. I asked why _I_ should, he shrugged and said most people eventually decide he’s not worth the effort and I was — I didn’t really know how to answer, so I didn’t, and I promised to copy more concerts for him and he looked about moved, and we’re apparently seeing the Asbury Park documentary together when it comes out.”

“_Apparently_?”

“Well, it’s out for three days in cinemas in May, it’s almost November, a lot of things could happen before then.”

“But you’re making plans that far?” She thinks he’s _almost_ smiling. _Not him, too_.

“I suppose. I don’t know, I mean, I _do_ have friends but we met because we had to be in the same place together or something similar, this might be the first time I make one that I met just like that and I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“From what you tell me, it seems that he’s not much better off than you.”

“… Fair,” she admits, “so that means I shouldn’t worry?”

“I think it means he’s most likely not bothered that you gave him your phone number.”

“… Right. I _was_ worrying about that,” she admits.

“If he didn’t want it, he most likely wouldn’t have called.”

“That’s also reasonable,” she admits. “I just, I don’t — I mean, I’m leaving it like this for now especially because he _really_ needs to clear his head and I don’t even know where to begin, but what if I said we were texting until two AM and I usually go to sleep by eleven, if I’m not out?”

“I daresay it’s perfectly normal, especially if you have just met and can’t talk throughout the day regularly. Also, you _did_ say you’re attracted to him.”

“Yeah. And — that talk. I mean, I can’t say what he told me of course, but let’s just say that his previous relationship is… the kind that would make people run for the hills, if they knew.”

“And you don’t want to run for the hills?”

She shrugs. “Honestly, it’s terrifying because from what he said it was all kinds of _bad_ and I’ve _never_ been in a serious relationship, though I guess he had never been in a, uh, _regular_ one, I guess, so I don’t even know where I’d start. But — no. I mean, I’d feel like shit running for the hills. Also because he obviously wants to move on. And — if we’re friends, which I think we are at this point, I should be supportive. That’s the entire point, isn’t it?”

“That’s part of the point. But when you say _you’d feel like shit running for the hills_, you mean that you feel obliged to —”

“No, absolutely. I mean, I _want_ to. And — I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t regret it or I wouldn’t have kept on talking to him, not after, well. The others.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. Now, the question is, do you want to set yourself a goal?”

“… Such as?”

“Do you think that if tomorrow he asked you out on a date you would take it… well?”

“I would probably throw up for an hour before leaving the house,” she admits. “But in all fairness, if I asked him out and for some miracle he said yes, I have a feeling he’d do the same thing.”

“So, you’re not ready and _he_ is not ready. But when did you say you’re watching that movie together?”

“The end of May. Why?”

“Maybe you could work on making sure that if he did ask you out by _then_, you wouldn’t throw up for an hour before leaving the house while he hopefully works on _his_ issues.”

Well. It’s… seven months between now and May. “That… seems reasonable,” she agrees. “But wearing nice dresses won’t cut it, will it?”

“Probably not, but it would be a start.”

He _does_ have a point. Or ten. Or a hundred.

Right.

From now until the Asbury Park documentary is out, and they can just… hang out in a friendly way meanwhile.

That’s doable.

That’s… absolutely doable.

Or so it seems, at least.

— —

In the next weeks, she realizes two things: it’s _sort of doable_, and she’s whipped. Badly.

Not even her long-buried crush on Renly had been this bad, and she had thought it couldn’t get worse than that.

_But_.

It’s not just that he’s crazy handsome and sadly for her, Brienne’s type has _always_ been guys with that kind of face who usually never even notice she exists. It’s that — the first time she invites him over so he can pick and choose if he wants any of her other records after he casually mentions that he used to have a lot of them and then after he told his sister they were done and he was leaving the family mansion she threw most of them out so he’s rebuilding the collection from almost scratch, he shows up with two boxes of cupcakes because apparently he couldn’t just pick enough to fit in one, and it’s not until a long time later while they’re drinking some light beer and listening to _[The Promise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fh69OPOBfI4)_ that he confesses that he never actually went over to anyone’s house to just hang out like this and he wanted to make sure he didn’t fuck it up.

“Well,” she says, “not that I’ll ever say no to free cupcakes, but if I invite you over you don’t need to bring anything. It’s fine.”

“What, I don’t?”

“Maybe the pleasure of your company is enough,” she deadpans, handing him one of the remaining cupcakes, and maybe he looks a bit like he’s gloating at that, but she’ll let it pass.

The other times he shows up, he brings _less_ cupcakes, but he always has at least one small box. She doesn’t know why it’s endearing, she should just tell him there’s no need to overdo it, but he looks pretty pleased with the fact that she seems to like it, so — she never does.

— —

Then one day when they’re at the coffee shop in front of her uni she’s wearing a new sweater she just got at this clearance in a shop near her place that was closing. It’s — not her usual stuff, she usually goes for large, men-cut dark ones, but she’s trying to apply to her winter wardrobe the same concepts she had applied to her summer one, so she bought it even if it was a bright red that actually _did_ fit her properly, with a slight v-neck and white flowers at the hems.

No one has said a thing about it yet, which is good as far as she’s concerned.

They’ve just done ordering their coffee when a blonde woman wearing a way more flattering silk sweater stops by their table.

“_Jaime Lannister_?” She asks, feigning surprise. Brienne can hear it in her tone.

Jaime glances at her as if he’s absolutely _not_ surprised, instead. “Ami,” he sighs. “How is my cousin doing?”

Her (fake) smile falls off her face.

“Oh, he’s doing good, when he deigns to show up in the house. I haven’t seen you recently at —”

“The weekly family gatherings? Yeah, I’m out.” He smiles, and it’s equally fake, except that it’s also _sharp _and he looks like he can’t wait to have her out of their way. “Sorry. I was done. Please don’t say hi to anyone from me, I’m not that interested and I can contact the family I want to talk to, _if_ I want to.”

“You know, we did miss —”

“Ami, can the bullshit. We _all_ know that maybe my aunt and my brother and _one_ cousin that’s not Lancel would actively miss me and that no one else gives a damn, no point in pretending anyone back home cares about what I do unless it’s what they want me to do. Nice seeing you, I have more pressing matters to attend.”

At that point, she looks at Brienne, scowling slightly, then she shrugs —

“You would think that when your father owns a fashion brand, you’d go around with people who know how to dress appropriately,” she says, and then turns to leave the shop.

Brienne rolls her eyes, figuring that it was to be expected.

Jaime’s, though — he glares at Ami’s back as she heads for the door. Then —

“I should hope you don’t want me to tell Lancel what color was the underwear that _you_ were wearing at your wedding’s reception,” he says, smiling in a frankly terrifying way, and her face falls as she hurries out of the door.

Brienne thinks she _wouldn’t_ want that smile directed at her at any point ever.

“Uhm,” she says, “you didn’t have to —”

“Please,” he says, “she’s my cousin’s wife and it was a business thing and she hates it because the cousin in question cares more about attending his parish than attending to his marital duties and she actually put a move on me in the bathroom after they cut the cake.” He shrugs, and Brienne can’t help wondering how he’s _this_ nonchalant about this kind of thing, because — she doubts that it’s _normal_ that you propose to your husband’s cousin on your _wedding night_, or better, _before_ the wedding night. “Most likely my father or my uncle sent her trailing me or something.”

“… How are you this chill about it? That’s stalking, where I come from.”

He shrugs again. “They don’t know the concept of privacy. Hopefully they’ll drop it when they realize I’m done with them. Also, don’t listen to her, that sweater looks nice on you.”

“Wait, what?”

“It’s nice. I mean, it’s a pretty shade of red. Suits you. And I’m saying it as the son of the guy with the fashion brand.”

She breathes in. Should she share —

Oh, screw it, he told her he _fucked his sister_, she can, well, share something entirely less compromising.

“What if I said that I spent years dressing like crap because I thought feminine stuff looked like shit on me and I’m trying to give less of a damn?”

“Hey, I’m the champion of not giving a damn these days. Wear whatever you want. And anyway, it _does_ suit you, I wouldn’t lie about it.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you that the black lump you had on three days ago when I dropped by was terrible.”

Brienne _has_ to laugh at that. “Well, I bought this to take its place.”

“Good. Throw that one out. Shitty choice.”

“You know,” she says, casually, trying to not show how she’s terrified of asking the question, “if I wear stuff that looks terrible, you _could_ tell me. I mean, I know you wouldn’t mean it badly. And I’m — well. I kind of want to stop putting on shitty clothing.”

“Fair,” he says, “I guess I can repay your bootlegs like that.”

And then he’s smiling _for real_, and —

And at that point Brienne’s chest is just so _warm_ and her heart is beating so fast, but she can’t believe she actually is pretty sure she _could_ trust him to tell her if her clothing choices are terrible without assuming he’s making fun of her.

— —

Late November, she invites him over when she decides to throw away stuff she would hate wearing.

He shows up with more cupcakes and proceeds on actually helping her getting rid of things that she can’t believe she actually wore for years because they were safe choices when she didn’t even like them in the first place. At some points he jokes that at least _she_ definitely makes him feel useful rather than like a dead weight, and she doesn’t comment on that and rather throws an old sweater at his face.

Why is it so _easy_ to talk to him while at the same time she feels like her damned heart will explode if she spends time with him regularly?

(It never does, of course, but still. It feels like that. All the time.)

— —

“So, I think it’s official that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she tells Stannis one cold December evening.

“When it comes to —”

“Yeah. _Him_. Jaime. I mean, we’ve done fine so far, I think, and since he stopped trying to _cope with alcohol_ he seems to be doing way better, except that two days ago we were getting coffee and he says that he’s most likely spending Christmas listening to the records _I_ burned him because his brother is going to the Canary islands with his girlfriend and of course no one will invite him over and — I mean, my dad moved back to the old family house we had on Jersey after he retired because he said he missed it and honestly, he’s always been happier there and he hated London, but I can’t go there this year because finals are in January, and so I’m kind of on my own, and I might have invited Jaime over. And first he couldn’t believe I was serious, then he said yes, so — I guess we’re doing Christmas together. And I’m still very much into him. And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Stannis nods, then gives her a look that promises a question she’ll hate. “And what about _him_?”

“… In what sense?”

“_You_ know you’re attracted to him. Do you get any vibe that he might reciprocate?”

… Well, she was right. “I — I don’t know. I mean, this is not me putting myself down. It’s that I legitimately wouldn’t know. I mean, let’s be real, _one_ guy ever was into me legitimately and I laughed in his face, how am I supposed to know that?”

“That’s also fair, but you aren’t saying you’re sure he’s _not_.”

True. She hadn’t said it. She shrugs. “I mean, it’s obvious that as a friend he definitely _likes_ me. But — I wouldn’t know about the rest. Still, at most he said my sweaters were ugly, not that _I_ was.”

“That is a low bar,” Stannis says, “but I suppose it’s _something_. Anyway, you might not know what you’re doing but you _did_ make friends with him when this summer you looked terrified at the prospect, so I daresay you’re not doing too bad.”

… She supposes that’s also another point.

Maybe by Christmas she can go as far as actually asking Sansa for make-up advice.

— —

On Christmas day, she opens the door wearing her usual jeans and a _nice_, soft blue wool sweater that for some miracle fit her perfectly. She _has_ asked Sansa for advice and put on just the slightest hint of mascara and blue eyeshadow. She’s halfway sure Jaime was about to drop the bag in the crook of his left arm the moment he saw her.

“What,” she asks as she lets him in, “such a disaster?”

“The hell? No,” he says, so fast she can’t buy he would be lying. “You just never put it on so I wasn’t expecting it, but it’s a nice look. Really. Just don’t try doing it with glitter eyeshadow or you might bite off more than you can chew.”

She _does_ laugh, closing the door. “Fair. No glitter.” She also doesn’t tell him that even if he’s wearing some ugly as _hell_ Christmas sweaters with golden snowflakes that was apparently his brother’s mock gift for this year he still looks entirely too hot for it to be fair.

They also both laugh hard enough to cry when they end up gifting each other bootlegs for two different concerts in the same town across three different days because the owner of the only record shop left in their area knows exactly who they are and made sure they wouldn’t buy each other things they already owned, and — she doesn’t put a move on him, of course _not_, but they spend the day listening to their respective presents and when she offers him some more of that light beer she has in the fridge he says he’s been heavy-drinks free for a while so he’ll take it, and by the time they’re well into the afternoon they’re watching _Live in Barcelona_ and his head’s ended up on her leg and somehow her hand is in his hair and she has a feeling that in movies this would be when she would put that move on him, but she knows she won’t and she’s already dying at the closeness that has come so _easy_ —

His phone rings. He looks at the screen and groans out loud — she asks him if she should pause, he says no. _[My City of Ruins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CapO4lucqH4)_ keeps playing as he takes the call.

“Cersei,” he says, his voice flat, and maybe Brienne squeezes his shoulder at that. He doesn’t tell her not to. “No, actually. No, I’m not. No, I _really_ am not. Yes, I know that’s your opinion and whatever, I think you can shove it. Yes, I’m at a friend’s place. Yes, I do actually have some friends that aren’t yours first. No, I don’t think so. Well, I might be the stupidest of the lot, but I think I know what I want. Best wishes,” he says, and then closes the call and turns off the phone. “Obviously she called from my cousin’s phone. You’d think I made that point clear.”

“Jaime, uh, I don’t want to presume, but what is it that she was saying about —”

“What, my lack of smarts?” He shrugs. “Old news.”

“… Old news,” she repeats, not at all comforted by the remark.

He shrugs. “Well, her trademark story was that we were the same person in two bodies except that the brains went all to her, and that was confirmed when it turned out I had we-didn’t-know-then-but-it-was dyslexia back in elementary school and she spent years making me feel like shit about it when I didn’t even know it wasn’t, well, _my_ problem until I was in high school, and it kept on, and apparently now that I decided I’m done with her it’s just the proof all over again, but whatever. I can’t care less.”

“You can tell your sister that I’ve met a lot of remarkably idiotic people in my entire life and _you_ wouldn’t even make a dent in the top fifty. By the way, are you still thinking about that journalism school?”

“Considering the amount of idiots you seem to have run into, I don’t know if it’s a compliment,” he laughs, but he seems a bit relieved. “Also, maybe, but — I don’t know. I have to see if I can time it properly and find one that would give me some employment before my money runs out.”

“Believe me, it is,” she says, her hand falling to his hair as the chorus on the television goes into _come on rise up, come on rise up, come on rise up_, and he makes a pleased sound before asking her if he can stay over.

She says yes.

— —

“So,” she tells Stannis two weeks later, “I think — well. I don’t know, actually.”

“You don’t know what you think, or you don’t know how to put it into words?”

“Both. I mean, when I told Sansa that me and Jaime spent Christmas day basically cuddling on the sofa watching Springsteen shows and nothing else happened she told me I was being an idiot, but — it just — didn’t seem the right moment,” she shrugs. “Not after his, uh, ex had called, anyway.” Brienne is _not_ going to share the detail that his ex is his sister, too. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Jaime would want her to tell anyone, and it’s not like it changes anything when it comes to her pressing issue here. “Anyway, we agreed to go to the pub for New Year’s — his brother was going to be there, too, Sansa and the entire family as well and — Tormund. Tormund’s the guy who hit on me that first time.”

“All right. And did it go badly?”

“No, uhm, I mean, it _didn’t_, but — it got weird? I mean, thing is, Jon — Tormund’s boyfriend, Sansa’s brother — he’s still not really walking around on that leg too much. It’s healing, but they told him to be careful for another couple of months because it was pretty bad. So Tormund was on his own, I got there before Jaime did, and — well, everyone else was either paired up or flirting so I went to get a drink with him and catch up.”

“Sounds reasonable. And?”

“And, then Jaime showed up and I introduced them properly and he looked… I don’t know, _strange_? I mean, he gave Tormund the cold shoulder for the entire evening even if he was pretending not to, but… nothing happened that could justify it?”

“Hm. And that was a one-off thing, or —”

“No. We went back another couple of times in between New Year’s and today. And — same thing. I mean, they do talk to each other, it’s just… it’s obvious there’s some hostility. But I don’t get it and when I asked if there was a problem Jaime said absolutely not, so… I don’t know.”

“Are you sure they didn’t know each other before or anything of the kind?”

“Tormund swears on his life that it’s not the case.”

“Hm. And how do you feel about that?”

“I — weird? I mean, they’re both friends, it’d be nice if they got along, but I can’t make them if they don’t, right?”

“No,” Stannis agrees, “but I see that you _do_ have some social life on your hands.”

“… I guess. I just wish I knew what the hell is going on.”

“How about you give it another couple of months and see if anything changes? That is, remembering that you _did_ give yourself a goal before May.”

“Not to be pessimist, I just barely grasped the concept of putting on make-up, could we make it until, like September?”

“I’d say when you feel ready, but take into account that postponing usually hurts your chances.”

Which is a fair assumption.

“And what if I’m terrified that if he’s not into me I’m just going to ruin things?”

“Does he look like the kind of person who wouldn’t be an adult about it?”

“Well, no,” she says. “I mean, I don’t think so. It’s just, it’s hard,” she admits.

“I know, but if you don’t try it you will never even start getting over finding it hard.”

… He has a point about that, too.

She takes a deep breath.

Shit. She’s come this far and she has a goal, she _can_ work herself up to ask him out like an adult three months from now, and if he says no, _fine_, it wouldn’t be the first time and most likely it would show her how it feels to be rejected by someone who’s not an asshole about it.

Can’t hurt, right?

— —

“All right, I don’t know if I can do it before I sort this out,” she admits one morning in early March — shit, she technically gave herself until May so she has time, but, but — now she has no clue.

“Until you sort _what_ out?” Stannis asks.

“What those two are about!” She exclaims. “Jaime and Tormund, I mean. I don’t know, it’s — Jaime’s been back around the place since New Year’s even if he always gets stuff without alcohol and the owner doesn’t let him live it down and they’re, like, always glaring at each other and Tormund swears left and right that he’s only glaring back because Jaime glares at him first, which is probably true, but if I ask he always says that it’s fine and no he doesn’t have a problem with him… except that I think he’s lying. I mean. I understand it. But — I don’t get it. And it’s driving me insane.”

“Hm,” Stannis clears his throat, “I think I have a clue, but I need to ask you a few things.”

“Sure.”

“First, has _Jaime_ seen you being on your own with this Tormund?”

“Well, yeah. I mean. The first few times it was just me and him. And on New Year’s as well.”

“And you’re friendly. You and Tormund, I mean.”

“Well, _yeah_, at this point we are.”

“And I also gather that this Tormund is… the kind of person who’s handsy very openly?”

She thinks about it. Admittedly, Tormund is… the kind of person who’s just very openly affectionate with you if he’s known you for two hours, but then again she never had many friendships like _that_, so she hadn’t minded on principle. “Yeah, I guess, but — it’s nice? I mean, it’s obvious it’s friendly.”

“And, Tormund’s boyfriend has never showed up until now when the two of them are in the same place?”

“No. He says he might come back in a couple of weeks if his doctor says he’s good to go with the leg, but no, he hasn’t showed up since the incident. Why?”

Stannis clears his throat. “Have you considered that your guy might be jealous?”

For a moment, she’s completely floored. “Jealous…? Because of _Tormund_?”

“No, because of you,” Stannis says, dead serious.

Brienne is pretty damned sure she understood wrong. “Wait,” she says, “as in, he thinks Tormund is trying to put a move on me and he hates him for it?”

“Well, if he saw you two being friendly, he doesn’t know that Tormund is otherwise taken and he knows that you have a history with people pretending to hit on you, he might not want to jinx it for him because you’ve known him longer and he most likely can see that whatever Tormund is doing he’s not leading you on, but at the same time he might dislike him on principle because _he_ wants to do that.”

She blinks. And blinks.

And blinks.

She breathes in. “I’m not going to say it _doesn’t_ make sense.”

“Good.”

“But — I mean. Seriously? That’s just — ridiculous. He only has to ask if he wants to know — oh, _damn_.”

“What?”

“… I just realized we’re discussing the only man on the face of this planet who might be even worse than me at understanding how normal relationships work. But there’s — I mean, Bronn _knows_ that Tormund and Jon are together. They’re friends. He would tell him.”

Stannis raises an eyebrow. Just barely. “Would he?”

“… Why _wouldn’t_ he?”

“From what you said about this person, he seems to actually be the type of individual who finds this kind of misunderstanding hilarious.”

Brienne, who has Bronn’s number, decides that maybe she should clear this now. “Do you mind if I call him?”

“Feel free to,” Stannis says, leaning back a bit.

Brienne calls the number and Bronn picks up after three rings.

“What can I do for you?” He asks, sounding _amused_. What the fuck.

“Listen, I need you to answer me straight.”

“Wow, that was forward. Go ahead.”

“Is Jaime convinced that Tormund is hitting on me and perchance you have _not_ informed him that Tormund only has had eyes for Jon since the second they met?”

“Oh, it only took you two months to figure it out. Better than him.”

“… _The hell_?”

“To answer your question: he’s been sure of that since New Year’s and I _could_ have told him, but the asshole needed some time to clear his head before jumping into another relationship at once, so I saw fit to not inform him because I also knew _you_ can’t wait to put a move on him and there wasn’t any danger either of you was getting snitched by someone else. Also, it’s increasingly hilarious to see him seethe while he pines like _a normal person usually does _instead of his usual. He could have used the experience.”

“Bronn, for — you _could_ have told him!”

“I _could_ have, but other than providing amusement for myself, he actually did need the couple extra months. It was out of mutual benefit. Chill, now you can put a move on him and I can assure you that he’s going to french you in the middle of the room for how gone on you he is. Oh, I need to go restock my tequila. Good luck!”

He closes the call.

Brienne _almost_ drops the phone to the ground.

“What’s the verdict?”

She about wants to laugh _very_ hysterically. “Oh, he’s apparently been crazy into me since New Year’s at least, Bronn kept his mouth shut because he thought Jaime could use _pining like a normal person _whatever he even means with it, Tormund has no idea, _I_ had no idea and I can’t believe that I just had this conversation.”

“Do you need some water?”

“… I’ll need the whole bottle,” she says, and if Stannis looks maybe a _bit_ smug as he hands it over, she figures he only has all the reasons in the world for that now.

_Fuck_.

Bronn is an arsehole and she _will_ rip him a new one. Very soon.

“So,” Stannis says, “are you going to wait until May, or —”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That would be nonsense. And I can’t let him go on two months thinking — that. It would be just cruel. Also, if — well. If he means it, I’d be a complete idiot if I _waited_ to go for it.”

Stannis looks pretty satisfied with the answer.

But she’s _definitely_ going to wait at least until Jon shows back up at the bar, because she has to prove a damned point here.

— —

She tells Tormund first, because she figures he should be clued in, _and_ because Jon has to be present if she wants to make her point clear.

When she does, Tormund proceeds to laugh for five minutes, hard enough that he _cries_.

Brienne should have maybe kept it to herself. Maybe.

“Are you telling me he’s assuming that —” He finally wheezes.

“Yes,” she cuts him off, “which is why the next time both him and me are at the pub with _you_, I also need Jon to be there. I’m halfway sure I want to see his face when he realizes you two are this close to getting hitched.”

“Devious,” Tormund says. “Too bad we never were going to work out like _that_.”

“Sorry,” she replies, and she’s only too glad that they’re over it for good, “but you know, I don’t think Jon agrees.”

“Too real,” Tormund agrees as he immediately starts grinning just at the thought of it, and Brienne doesn’t point out they’re disgusting just because she has a feeling she makes the exact same face when she talks about Jaime anyway.

Regardless, she gets Tormund’s agreement for what she’s planned, he says he’ll tell Jon himself and — that’s good. Now she has two weeks to work up the guts to actually go for it.

— —

It has sounded easy.

Except that then she had realized, _and how do I go for it_?

Point is: all of Brienne’s experience when it comes to What To Do When Putting A Move On Someone come from romcoms she’s watched with Sansa, and she’s _not_ going to ask Renly or Loras for advice because she has a feeling that two people who have been together since _elementary school_ somehow wouldn’t quite get it for how much she loves them, and the romcom experience says that at least a medium-grand gesture would be good, except that if she does that in front of the entire bar and it goes badly —

Which it _shouldn’t_, but still —

Fuck, she’s a mess, she decides, and since she has _some_ time to figure it out, she decides that she’ll try to inquire the next time they meet.

Which would be, two days from now.

She takes a very deep breath. Maybe Bronn should just play _Drive All Night_ and she could kiss him right in the middle of the sax solo. That would certainly be a good solution. But still —

Something doesn’t quite add up.

— —

Two days after, she wants to about crawl into a hole because when they walk inside the pub, it’s _obvious_ that everyone involved is clued in to the situation _except for Jaime_ which means that Tormund is extra friendly with her and Jaime replies in monosyllables that are even more icy than usual and Bronn looks like he’s going to topple over laughing. Tyrion is around, too, and Brienne is one hundred percent sure Bronn clued him in because he also looks at them like they’re pathetic, not that they _aren’t_, and —

She ignores the elephant in the room and gets the both of them a table for two.

He also looks like he could use sleeping for the next month. He _didn’t_, when they saw each other last week.

“Can I ask what’s wrong?” She finally blurts as he reaches for the chips they have in the middle of the table with his left — the right wrist is swimming in his jacket. But he hasn’t worn the prosthesis when they met up, lately.

“Is it _that_ obvious?” He shakes his head. “I used to be a better actor about this kinda thing, once.”

“It’s not like you _have_ to pretend you’re fine, you know.”

“Not where I come from,” he sighs. “Anyway — well, I just, had to do some legal stuff at the company. I mean, official severance and so on, which means I had to see my sister and it went exactly the way I had supposed it might. And — I don’t know. I guess the more time passes the more I realize how wrong she was for me and if I think about how much time I wasted running after her when she didn’t care, the more… I feel tired, I think.” He shrugs, munches on a few more chips. “Shit, this is going to sound dramatic.”

“No one here minds _dramatic_, I think,” she says, glancing around the place.

“Fair,” Jaime agrees — after all, Bronn _is_ dramatic in himself and half of the usual clientele in this place is hardly _not_ so. It’s not just him and Tyrion who pretty much try to outdo each other when it comes to that. But Robb is also a regular and everyone remembers when he and his then-best-friend Theon got together after a spectacular row _inside _the pub when they both had drunk too much and ended up screaming at each other for something dumb and then confessing that they actually were into each other. All of Tormund’s other friends and relatives are _exactly _like him, and they’re also regulars. All of Jon’s friends _can _be heard every single time they complain about how he needs to broaden from listening to only grunge music and Nick Cave whenever they come, and they come often. That’s not even counting when Bronn’s former bartender Jorah about quit and ran off the same evening with Aerys Targaryen’s niece, who used to come here to spite her father and they ended up falling for each other in the span of two weeks. And that’s just counting the _regular_ clientele. The casuals are… usually worse.

“It’s just… I don’t know,” he keeps on. “I thought we had some kinda star crossed lovers affair going on and I probably didn’t consider leaving because I fancied myself half of this epic romance thing and part of me _liked_ it. I think.”

“Unless I’m not getting it right,” she says, her heart beating so fast she thinks he’ll hear it sooner rather than later, “there’s… nothing shameful in liking it? I mean. Never mind that your favorite song is _Drive All Night_ and you think I’d be surprised to hear that you _do_ like a good romance, but it’s — who _doesn’t_ want the epic romance? It’s why it sells that much.”

“Touché, and if only it had been a good romance. Wait, why,” he smiles tiredly, “you did too?”

She shrugs, figuring she’ll try and be honest with him. She’s asking the same of him, after all. Even if the idea of telling _this_ to a guy she’s attracted to about terrifies her. “I mean — when I was younger, no one asked me out for fun, no one asked me out to win money for some kind of bet and no one told me I was too ugly to be even considered a valuable partner, maybe I did. I did wear princess dresses at Halloween, you know. I just… stopped after all of that. There’s nothing wrong with wanting that. I just figured out it wasn’t… for me,” she admits, carefully.

He scoffs. Openly. “Please,” he says. “I mean, I can see that Tormund over there is only waiting to put a move on you, for one.”

_Please don’t let me fuck it up._ “I have my doubts —”

“Clear as rain,” Jaime shakes his head. “And like, I don’t know if you’re into him or not and you don’t have to tell me or anything, but if you are… I mean, go for it. There’s nothing wrong with you, you’re the damned nicest person I know, beauty is fucking subjective and if people in general think tall women or whatever are ugly it doesn’t mean _someone_ wouldn’t be into you also for that. Sure as hell you’re way better off than me.”

… _What_.

“Are you serious?”

He shrugs again. “Last I checked you had all of your limbs attached, you don’t spend your time second-guessing if half of the people who talk to you do that because they want to get to your relatives or not, you don’t have baggage that would make any sane person run for the hills and you’re not dealing with realizing that you threw out pretty much your entire life and you don’t know how to start from scratch again. I think you’re starting with an advantage here.”

Brienne breathes in. She’s _not_ going to faint in front of him nor to blurt the truth right here and now because she has timed this and she doesn’t want to do it when it doesn’t seem like a good moment, and right now it would feel… not right, she thinks. Still —

“Anyone who wouldn’t give you a chance because _you don’t have all of your limbs attached_ doesn’t deserve you looking at them twice.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. Just after I lost it. I _did_ go to Cersei’s wedding. I asked her to dance because, well, I wasn’t — I did call it quits, but I wanted it to be on good terms, I don’t even know. She asked how I was going to lead without the damned hand and said that at most I could hope to not pour the wine out of the glass if she asked me to do it for her, and for years I thought we were the only two people for each other in the entire damned world. What do I know?”

“[No _having a party_ and getting things started at whichever place they held the wedding in, then](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8PwFyouBDc)?” She blurts, thinking of the first thing that might lighten up the mood, and usually the random Springsteen quoting _does_ work —

He _does_ laugh. “Nah,” he says, “and anyway, these days I don’t… dream of _her_ in my arms before I lose myself in the crowd. Which is a good thing. It is. I just — I guess I need to come to terms with things. But it’s all right, really.”

“So you dream of _someone else_ in your arms before you lose yourself in the crowd?”

His cheek flush, he doesn’t quite look at her. “Maybe,” he admits, “but never mind. It’s hopeless. And I’ll get over it. I mean, if I had been less of an idiot I’d have gotten there first, but — yeah. Whatever. at least I’m not seeing my sister again for the foreseeable future. And I did send in a few applications.”

“For schools? Good,” she smiles, meaning it, and then he looks at her again and —

Shit. She needs — she needs to be objective here. Her first instinct is assuming that if he’s looking at _her_, he won’t mean it in a… _not friendly _way. But —

His eyes are locked with hers, with a soft look to them, his mouth is slightly smiling, he’s staring at her like there’s nothing else he’d rather be looking at.

_If it was any other woman, would I presume he was into her_, she asks herself, trying to not assume that it’s for everyone else but her.

And —

Her fingers find his left hand’s. When she squeezes it, he grasps back at it, almost gratefully.

Well.

If it had been any other woman, Brienne would have presumed _yes_.

Maybe —

Oh.

_Oh_. She thinks she knows what she has to do now.

She just has to wait a few more days and to discuss it with Bronn, but — she can do that, she thinks.

In that song she quoted at him before, in the refrain, the singer asked _tell me how do we get this thing started_.

She has a feeling no one is going to tell _her_ how to get _theirs_ started.

But maybe she’s just figured it out. She just has to hope that she _does_ manage.

— —

“Are you _serious_,” Bronn tells her when she comes up to him the next day and lays out her plan.

“I’m entirely serious. Also, it’s half _your_ fault that he hasn’t figured it out yet, so you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything because I just did what was best for everyone involved,” he says, but then he raises his hands. “Fine, fine, I’ll play you the damned thing.”

“The way I said you should.”

“_Sure_, the way you say, got it the first time round. Christ, you two deserve each other.”

_I wish_, Brienne thinks and doesn’t say.

On the eve of the day she and Tormund agreed on, she proceeds to freak the hell out in Stannis’s office but comes out of it with her head more or less clearer, and good thing that because he’ll be out of town for a month and they won’t see each other until he’s back from his series of conferences in the US.

The morning after she considers asking Sansa outfit advice but —

But for some kind of miracle actual sun breaks out of the clouds and the temperatures rise into the twenty degrees, which is — not a thing that usually happens in March in London, and she remembers that dress she bought last summer that she never had the guts to wear.

Ah, fuck that.

If she has to do this, she might as well go for the entire jackpot and assess the damage later.

— —

At nine PM, she shows up wearing the cherry pink dress, a pair of black flats she got in a haste this afternoon that don’t clash with it too much and her usual leather jacket, which most likely makes for a terrible combination, but she’ll take it off soon enough.

Tormund was at the counter and he makes a show of hugging her _very_ closely when he walks up to her, kissing her on both cheeks, and a moment later she turns to the opposite side and —

Jaime is sending Tormund the most murderous look she’s ever seen on his face since they met.

Then she says hi and he swallows as he answers back and tells her —

“Where were you hiding that?”

“What, the dress?” She asks, taking the jacket off.

“Yeah,” he says, “it — it suits you. Goes well with your eyes.”

Brienne is about to tell him that his new dark blue jeans and white dress shirt become him, too, but she doesn’t because a moment later —

“And he’s resurfaced!” Bronn exclaims as Jon makes his way inside the pub with Sansa, Robb and Theon trailing behind him — Brienne is halfway sure that those two showed up more to see the show than to support Jon while Sansa said she wasn’t going to miss _this_ entire evening for the world, and she hadn’t even tried to dissuade her.

“Fuck you,” Jon replies amiably, “I’d have rather kept on hanging around here than spend months changing splinters.”

“Here,” Bronn says, “have a free beer for the return of the prodigal customer.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Then he very calmly proceeds to head to the counter, throw his legs around Tormund’s and french the living daylights out of him — or better, he starts it, but a second later Tormund starts leading the show and after ten seconds Brienne thinks it’s already going into semi-pornographic territory.

Except that then she turns to Jaime, who’s watching the entire thing with eyes so wide it would almost be amusing, if this entire situation wasn’t… what it is.

“Wait,” he says the moment those two break the kiss, even if they keep on looking at each other like no one else is in the room, “are — are you two _together_?”

“Yeah,” Jon smirks at him, moving back to his own stool and reaching for the free beer Bronn handed him, “from about the evening when _she_ not so nicely turned _him_ down.”

“… You _turned him down_?” Jaime repeats, looking in between her and Tormund as if he can’t process it.

“Well,” Brienne says, “I, uh —”

“She laughed at me and assumed I didn’t mean it,” Tormund supplies, “but in the end it was all good because we really aren’t compatible like _that_. She’s a great friend, though, after she gets over mistrusting everyone around her.”

“Yeah, let’s just say I was a complete cunt to him. But it made me realize a few things and — never mind that. So, yes, they are together, and yes, I turned him down. And even if I hadn’t laughed at him, I don’t think I’d have said yes.”

“You — wouldn’t have?”

“No,” she shakes her head, “he’s a great friend, too, but not my type. Also, the few times I heard what he and Jon do behind closed doors, they confirmed me we wouldn’t have really lasted like _that_.”

“Oh,” Jaime says, dumbfounded, and now he’s looking at Tormund like he feels sorry for having treated him like shit, except that if he said it he’d admit —

_Bronn, get the fuck on with it_, she thinks, and a moment later he thankfully _does_. She can see Tyrion sitting at a nearby table looking at them like he wants to die laughing, and everyone else is staring at them like they’re expecting the show to deliver what it has promised already, but — that’s not what matters now.

What matters is that Bronn _had_ put on _[Drive All Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElVcxC89lqk)_ in the background, but now he has turned it up _right_ as the sax solo starts, good, _good_ —

“So,” Brienne clears her throat, “_that_ matter is settled, but — I have to tell you something.”

Jaime nods at her, and she tries — she moves her hand downward, grabbing his left, and he doesn’t let it go at once. Good.

“Case is,” she starts, “I spent weeks trying to figure out why you and him just wouldn’t get along, then someone I was talking to with a, uh, external view on the situation, said that it might have been because you thought he was interested and _you_ also were but didn’t want to step in and ruin things for us.” The way his skin pales, she can see she’s right. She shakes her head. “That made sense. And — other than freaking out because I thought it was some kind of joke, I — I also did because I couldn’t believe that _you_ would be into me when I think I’ve been into you from the moment I came up to the counter first.”

She stops, gauging for a reaction, and for a moment she’s terrified he’ll say she got it all wrong, but —

“Seriously?” He asks, sounding like he’s not sure that it’s really happening.

The first solo ends.

_There's machines and there's fire_

_Waiting on the edge of town —_

She moves closer. She thinks her heartbeat is out of control and she feels like throwing up, but —

“Yeah,” she nods, her left hand touching his wrist delicately. “And — I’m terrible at this and the last time someone learned how I felt about them was a disaster so I thought I’d never put myself in that position again, but —”

_They're out there for hire but baby they can't hurt us now_ —

“— but then I decided that if I could do it for someone maybe I could for _you_, and — I don’t know how do we get this thing started _at all_ but there’s nothing I’d want more than to start it with you, and —”

_Cause you've got, you've got, you've got, you've got my love, you've got my love_ —

She shrugs, motioning towards the speakers on top of the shelves, and she hopes that suffices for a confession, because she doesn’t know if she can say it in public without fainting —

_Through the wind, through the rain, the snow, the wind, the rain_ —

“I think,” Jaime says a moment later, and he sounds choked, like he can barely speaks, and wait, his hand is clamping down on hers, “I think that you should finish before I share my opinion,” and he’s half-smiling and his eyes are glinting and no one is saying anything, and his mouth is barely parted —

For a moment, Brienne wishes she _had_ kissed someone else before, if only because so she’d have _some_ damned experience, but hasn’t she spent months trying to come up with the fact that an hypothetical guy into her wouldn’t mind?

She breathes in, moves her hands up to his face and just as the song moves on —

_(You’ve got, you've got my, my love, oh, girl, you’ve got my love —_)

Leans down, sees that he has closed his eyes before her, and oh, _shit_, he’s — they were all right, he _would_ have wanted this, he does —

(_You’ve got, you've got my, my love, oh, girl, you’ve got my love —_)

Takes another breath, hoping that her knees don’t give out —

(_You’ve got, you've got my, my love, oh, girl, you’ve got my love —_)

She could do it now, but she thinks he should know if he doesn’t already, and so just before she goes for it she whispers _and by the way, this is the first time I kiss someone_ —

(_You’ve got, you've got my, my love, oh, girl, you’ve got my love —_)

And then she hears him gasp under his breath and then she brings their lips together just as _heart and soul_ fills the entire pub, and a moment later his hand is up at the back of her head and he’s kissing her back slowly but _very_, very surely, and when his tongue runs along her bottom lip she gets the hint and makes it deeper, and his lips are warm and soft under hers and he’s moaning into her mouth a little after she runs her tongue across his, and her stomach is bursting with butterflies as she moves a hand down and grabs his right wrist and brings it on her hip —

His hold on her right hand is turning almost painful but after the fourth _heart and soul_ fades she has to move back for hair because she feels like her cheeks are burning, and she can hear people whistling but she can only look at _him_ —

And he’s looking back up at her so sweetly she wants to faint.

“So,” she whispers, “your opinion?”

“My opinion,” he says, “is that whoever thought being your first _anything_ wasn’t his rotten luck didn’t know what he was missing,” and then he’s kissing her again and she’s half-laughing in relief into the kiss, and that would have been nice if only then _the entire pub_ hadn’t started whistling.

They’re completely red in the face when they move apart and Bronn says that he’ll go change their too-slow-love-songs for something less boring, and a moment later Tormund shows up right in front of them.

“So,” he smirks, looking at Jaime, “are we having a truce now or are you still unreasonably mad at me for existing?”

Jaime groans in obvious embarrassment. “Well, I was an idiot. Yeah. Sure. I mean, I don’t — have any reasons to dislike you, other than — never mind. Go french your guy.”

“Oh, _I_ surely didn’t waste time when it came to it. And treat her right,” he finishes, glaring back, and Brienne doesn’t even want to know their damned business with _glaring_.

“Please,” she says, “swear to me that I won’t have to see the both of you doing_ that_ now because the previous three months were bad enough.”

“I swear I’ll give it a valiant try,” he replies, and his left hand is still holding hers and she thinks she’s flushing so hot her cheeks might burn —

“Hey,” he clears his throat, “I can see that my brother’s looking at me like he can’t wait to make fun of me for needing to be hit in the face with visual proof that Tormund _wasn’t_ hitting on you, and I could pospone that moment for one, so… I suppose you don’t do dancing in public either?”

A few people are doing it — Bronn has gone and put on damned _Save the Last Dance For Me_ because he most likely wanted to make fun of them and when Brienne glances at Sansa’s booth at the end of the room where both her, her brother and her-almost-brother-in-law are staring at them like vultures that are excited for the both of them but vultures all the same, she knows what he means.

“Not usually,” she smiles, “but if you were my first for that, too, I’d be delighted. Also, I’m better at it if I lead.”

He holds out the left hand properly.

She takes it.

“Never said leading was a priority,” he says, his mouth still smiling, and as they join the others she decides that it’s nowhere near as daunting as she thought, and she can feel his heartbeat speeding up against her chest and he fits into her arms so — so _well_, and it’s nice to actually not feel self-conscious for once, and fuck but she _likes_ it, and so she tells him, and —

“So,” he says, “does it mean we’re trying to get this thing started here?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, “we definitely are.”

Her first kiss was unbelievingly good. Her first dance is being pretty damn good, too.

She thinks taking that risk _really_ was worth it.

From the way he kisses her the moment the song ends, she’s pretty sure they’re on the same page.

— —

One week later, she _knows_ that it was worth it. Fine, they decided to take it slow for obvious reasons so they only went on a few dates and showed up at the pub every other evening, but — shit, she can’t believe that it’s been seven days and they’ve made out like teenagers in the back row of three different cinemas (she has no idea what movies they paid for), that they’ve actually went on a couple of those terrible cheesy dates where you split your cake because it’s too sugary for one person, that she’s lost count of how many times they kissed, that they’ve slept in the same bed without either of them feeling terrible for it more nights than not and that he’s showed up at the end of her classes every other day and they left the building hand in hand.

Going from nothing to _everything you thought your ideal new romance should be_ is throwing her in for a loop, but — it’s a _good_ loop.

Too bad that what she had suspected _does_ happen — as in, Tormund and Jaime maybe now know where the both of them stand, but it doesn’t mean they don’t keep on trading jabs at each other mostly concerning about whether Jaime’s doing right by her and whether it’s Tormund’s business to care, and after a two weeks of going out every other evening and seeing those two glare at each other like they’re secretly hoping for the other guy to drop down dead, Brienne is about to lock them inside the same room until they figure it out.

“Seriously,” she tells Jon while they’re trading not so veiled insults across the table the four of them were sitting at while the two of them had gone to get more drinks, “I can’t fucking believe that they’re… like that over _me_. They never even — I mean, there never even was a choice!”

Jon is staring at them like you would stare at a very interesting scientific experiment.

“I have a feeling they’re both stubborn idiots,” he says, fondly. “And the ridiculous thing is that they basically want the same thing, I mean, _your_ guy obviously kisses the ground you walk on and my guy has fairly dumb ideas about being overprotective of your female friends or relatives.”

“Are you guessing?”

“Nah. Each single one of his female relatives has punched him for caring too much and he always said he’s glad to see they can handle themselves.” He says it _fondly_. Made for each other, damn it. “Anyway, I think I have a solution for your dilemma.”

“Wait,” she asks, “you _do_?”

“Yeah,” Jon grins, slowly, “but give me a day.”

“I’ll give you a week as long as they _stop_ doing that. It’s my damned first serious relationship, I’d love it if I didn’t have to deal with _that_ every time we run into the two of you.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. It’s going to be enough of a harmless public humiliation that they’ll get over it.”

Brienne doesn’t know if she likes the sound of that, but then Jon actually tells her what he plans to do and _has_ to laugh as she tells him to go ahead.

— —

“So,” Jon says, amiably interrupting the evening’s usual jabs trading a couple days later — Brienne’s just glad that he showed up before they got too deep into it when it was just the three of them at the same table, “I think the two of you have a problem that can be easily solved.”

“We don’t have a problem,” Tormund says.

“That’s the first right thing he said since I’ve met him,” Jaime smirks, and Tormund glares at him again.

Jon rolls his eyes. Openly. “Sansa!” He calls.

Sansa, who had been sitting nearby ogling the new bartender (a guy who’s even _taller_ than Brienne, doesn’t talk if not to take orders and whose left side of his face is _very_ badly burned and who can’t seem to understand that Sansa drinks three Shirley Temples every day just to chat him up) shakes her head and comes to their table. Right. So she’s part of it, too.

“Yeah?”

“Can you _please_ sum up for them that ridiculous debate you and Jeyne had going on over those terrible vampire books when you were fourteen?”

“First, _excuse me_, they weren’t terrible until the vampire baby deal. _That_ was jumping the shark.”

“Wait,” Jaime says, “why are we discussing _Twilight_?”

“That didn’t strike me as your thing,” Sansa says, sounding surprised.

“It’s fucking not,” he says, “Tyrion used to write reviews making fun of it on his school newspaper so he read them and _I_ had to listen to him ranting about how stupid the plot was.”

“Men who don’t get romance,” she rolls her eyes. “Anyway, the human protagonist was in this love triangle with the vampire guy — Edward — and the werewolf guy — Jacob — and depending on whether you wanted her to end up with one or the other, you were Team Edward or Team Jacob, and I would like to point out that regardless of what my friend Jeyne used to say, Team Jacob was fairly superior —”

“Wasn’t there a team ‘they should fuck and leave the protagonist alone’?” Jaime asks, and Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Maybe, but the point is that you were supposed to be on a team because you thought the guy was _the best_ for her.”

“Okay,” Tormund says, “and we needed to learn this _why_?”

Jon opens his backpack and takes out two white t-shirts. “_Because_ you two are idiots who actually do genuinely want what’s best for _her_ but have decided that you have to be antagonistic about it when you have literally no reason to do it, so I took the liberty of speeding things up for you.”

He checks the shirts, then dumps one in front of Jaime and the other in front of Tormund.

Unsurprisingly, Jaime’s shirt has a black _Team Tormund_ printed over the chest, while Tormund’s has a likewise black _Team Jaime_ in the same position.

“I mean,” Jon says when the two of them glare back at him, “_you_,” he stares at Jaime, “do want her to not be surrounded by assholes and have friends, I should hope.”

“Well, _fucking obviously_ — oh. _Oh_,” he says, sounding mortified.

“While when it comes to _you_,” Jon tells Tormund, “considering how long you’ve been complaining that _she deserves a nice guy_ and it seems like she went and found him all for herself without needing our help… do I have to finish the sentence?”

“No,” Tormund admits. “I think you’ve made your point exceedingly clear.”

“He has,” Jaime admits, and for the first time they look at each other _without_ animosity. “I suppose,” Jaime keeps on, “that we should just — do the peace offering thing and wear these for the evening?”

Tormund considers it. Then he goes and pats Jaime on his back hard enough Jaime screams. “That’s the spirit! Maybe I misjudged you before.”

“Fucking hell,” Jaime groans, standing up, “I have _one_ functioning arm left, maybe try to not fuck it up.”

They go to the bathroom. They come out of it wearing the damned shirts.

Twenty minutes later, they’re actually having drinks together like civilized people.

“Hey,” Brienne tells Jon, “let me know when is your next birthday because I owe you a _damn_ good present.”

“Well, you also inadvertently landed me into the longest relationship I’ve ever had and the only one where the other person didn’t dump me after two weeks because _I was too depressing_, so you don’t really owe me, but it won’t be me stopping you from asking Robb what I might want.”

“I can work with that,” she grins, and she decides she’s getting him a nice present anyway.

— —

“You look good,” Stannis says, sounding like he had expected _exactly_ that.

“What can I say,” she shrugs, “I — I _feel_ good, actually? I mean, once in a while I pinch myself to be sure I’m not making it up, but —”

“What should you be _making it up_?”

“Uhm, that I put a move on a guy I was actually into who didn’t laugh in my face, that according to everyone else who knows the both of us nothing has changed from what we were doing _before_, not counting that we’re kissing now and so on?”

“And what do you think about it? I mean, about the fact that you need to be sure you’re not making it up.”

Of course he’d ask that. Of course he would.

She hadn’t exactly dwelled upon it. She takes a moment to consider it now.

“That I’m still putting myself down even if I’ve had… ample reassurance that the guy in question is actually attracted to me?”

“And what’s your plan for it?”

“A year ago I’d have settled for it, I think,” she says, figuring that there’s no point in beating around the bush either. A year ago, she’d have probably assumed that she got extremely lucky and kept on thinking that without questioning, and a year ago _she_ wouldn’t have put that move on him herself.

“And now?”

“I’d rather get to a point where I don’t do that. Also because _he_ puts himself down more than I do, which is saying all, and maybe two people doing that wouldn’t really be a good match.”

“Good,” he says, “and it probably wouldn’t, but at this point I think there is another question you should answer yourself.”

“… As in?”

“Well, you flat out asked if it wasn’t _stupid_ that you would come here for the reasons you did. Never mind that there’s no stupid reason to look for help anyway, do you still think it was a stupid reason or that it could have been?”

Oh.

_That_.

She shakes her head. Considering the dirt she has uncovered when it came to her damned issues that she had no idea she even _had_, there’s just one answer she can give him.

“No,” she says. “It wasn’t.”

“Good to hear it. And I would try to stop assuming you’re _making things up_.”

“I’m trying,” she admits, “even if admittedly — I mean, I was terrified that I’d get it wrong because what do I know about being in relationships _myself_, right?”

“And did you find out otherwise?”

“Considering that the day we fessed up he told me that he had no idea of how anyone did relationships that you didn’t have to keep hidden from everyone else or where someone else didn’t decide everything, at least we’re assuming that neither of us has a clue of what we’re doing. Which is… weird, but at least I’m not worrying about _that_ more than he is.”

“Well, if you both want to make it work, I’m sure you’re not doing too bad. And how are you feeling when it comes to… intimacy issues?”

Yeah. Well. He _would_ ask that, too. “Uhm, we haven’t gotten there yet because he said he had _plans_, I did say that I didn’t need anything that had to be _planned_ but he insisted that since the only reason we talked was, well, that I sent Tormund around asking people if they’d have issues dating someone who hasn’t been with anyone else well past their teenage years there was no way he’d be fine with the two of us just letting it happen on the couch. I’m — I think there was no need but he seemed excited so — I waited this long, I can wait until this week-end.”

“And you aren’t worried it might go badly?”

She shakes her head, marveled at how sure of that she is, but — “Anyone else? I’d have worried. But I really don’t think _he_ would do anything that would make it go badly, so — no. I’m not.”

He nods, tells her that he thinks it’s good progress, and then proceeds on about give her the third degree about how _exactly_ she’s been feeling this last month, and when she’s out of the door she feels like she’s just run a marathon —

But she also feels better. Way better. And she knows there’s no way she’ll be done soon, but — but it doesn’t feel so daunting anymore.

— —

It’s not that they made _plans _for specifically that Saturday, but from the way Jaime kept on dropping hints whenever they saw each other during the week, she had sort of gathered that whatever he was planning was going to happen _then_.

She had thought it wouldn’t really be too much of a big deal — he knows, he’s known since _before_ they even saw each other in the face, she’s been ready to have sex _in theory_ for years, there’s no reason to freak out, except that as she agrees when he asks her to meet at his apartment at seven in the evening she realizes she _is_ low-key freaking out.

Which is ridiculous — it’s not as if she hasn’t _thought_ of what she’d like to do with him, it’s not as if she doesn’t know how having sex works, it’s not as if she’s never touched herself in her life, and he obviously wants her, but that part of her that really can’t believe It’s Finally Happening won’t shut up and it won’t stop whispering in her ear that there’s no way this goes over well.

Damn, if she ever goes back to one of those high school dinners, she _is_ going to tell everyone a piece of her mind just so that they’re one hundred percent aware that they _did_ fuck up her life.

It’s warm that day, so she wears the pink dress out of — wanting to force herself to _not_ hide or fall back into her usual habits of wanting to cover herself as much as possible.

She rings the doorbell and Jaime immediately opens the door for her — she’s only been here some five times because he says her place is a lot nicer, and she can see why as it’s not a horribly kept building but it’s fairly grey and ugly and his apartment has just two rooms (_I’m trying to keep the costs contained_, he had joked when she had seen that it was stuffed with boxes and the bookshelves were overflowing, _but I’m also terrible at throwing stuff out_), so she can see why he’d rather come at her place.

Still, she holds on to the bouquet of primroses she got before coming here _and_ the decent wine she bought the day before because she figured she should show up with something nice that wasn’t another Springsteen bootleg, and knocks on the door.

He immediately opens it.

Her eyes go wide at seeing that he has a damned _purple_ eye and bruise right next to his upper lip. “What the _hell_ happened?”

“Are those _flowers_?” He asks at the same time, and then he bursts out laughing at her most likely outraged face as he lets her in.

“Yeah,” she says, “they’re flowers, and that was some wine, because I think I have manners, but — don’t dance around _that_. Was it —”

“No, for once it wasn’t my sister,” he snorts, and wait, _for once_ —, “and those are lovely flowers and I’m not letting you keep them, and — it’s a long story. But that’s also why you’re here. That wasn’t the plan.”

Brienne hands him the flowers and waits for him to put them in a vase, not missing that he seems to be pretty damn happy about _that_.

Maybe she should do it more. She thinks she wouldn’t mind it whatsoever.

“So… the plan?” She asks as she sits down on his red sofa and he joins her.

“Right. _The plan_ was to get my brother to book us some exceedingly pricey room at an equally exceedingly pricey hotel with room service and silk sheets because sadly _I_ can’t afford that anymore but _he_ could, and he would have done that, except that two days ago I was at Bronn’s for lunch and — that idiot you were in class with showed up.”

“… Who, Hyle?” She asks, hoping it was him and not —

“No,” Jaime shakes his head. “Ronnet Connington.”

“Oh, _shit_,” she blurts, “and what was he doing there?”

“No idea, but apparently he’s started an internship for my father’s damned company and the pub is right around the corner. That’s why me and Tyrion found out that place existed.”

“… All right. And?”

“And I was discussing you with Bronn and I was informing him that I _could_ absolutely have considered the rose petals on the bed just in case, and he was telling me that I was being ridiculous —”

“He would have been right,” Brienne mutters, shaking her head.

“Yeah, well, so your former guy starts asking if we were talking about the same Brienne Tarth who went to school with him, Bronn sort of confirmed it and he asked me if I was blind if I was thinking of actually, well, go all the way with you. I told him it wasn’t his business and asked him whether he knew any better, he told the entire story of, well, his birthday party while Tormund was also coming in for lunch.” He shrugs. “I had the prosthesis on. You know that thing’s _heavy_.”

“Jaime —”

“I knocked out a couple of his teeth,” he admits, sheepishly, “but then the arse punched back and I think he backed out of pressing charges because Tormund understood immediately the situation and put the fear of some five gods into him, and — well, they wouldn’t let me into _any_ hotel I had thought of with _this_.” He motions to his eye. “And it’s not going to go away for a while, and I — well. I think you’ve waited long enough.”

She shakes her head, feeling like she can’t talk, because she didn’t — she wasn’t expecting _that_, and he’s saying it with such detachment that she can’t believe he just went and punched that ass in the face and that he wanted to book the damned hotel when she doesn’t need any of that —

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t _have_ to,” she whispers. “I mean, you know I’d have been fine with _anything_ and that you didn’t have to hurt yourself because of that idiot, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “but I just saw red. I mean, the way he was talking about you was just — I can’t even conceive it.” He moves his left hand over hers. “Also, it’s not like waiting wasn’t also torturing myself, so —”

“_Torturing yourself_?”

He smiles, even if it should hurt considering that he has a bruise right over his mouth. “If you think I haven’t thought about the two of us getting naked for a long time, you’re _wrong_. I just — I wanted to make it good, but at this point I don’t even want you to think that I’m stalling.”

“You know,” she says, “a year ago I’d have cried at how considerate _that_ was, but I think I got that you’re not, like, pretending to be into me. I mean, I don’t think I’d have assumed you _didn’t_ want to, if you wanted to wait.”

“I didn’t particularly, no,” he shakes his head, “but at this point I don’t think I can arrange silk sheets on a short notice.”

“You know I don’t _need_ silk sheets, right?” She can’t help asking, shaking her head fondly, daring to move her other hand to his hip —

“Well, _yes_, but —” He shakes his head. “Right. I guess this is caring and sharing time, so — I don’t even know how to put this nicely, but if _you_ felt like you were lacking or whatever back when you sent Tormund around with his little survey because you hadn’t been with anyone… well. Fuck. I’ve never been with anyone that wasn’t Cersei,” he blurts, “and the more I think about it the more I realize it was never on my terms and I don’t even remember when we started being like _that_, and it was never the way it’s _supposed _to be because we had to hide and taking it slowly was not going to be an option, and she decided everything, and — you might never have done it. _I_ have never done it with someone who actually cared about it being good for the both of us or about _me_ in the first place, and I doubt you’re getting this great a bargain, so —”

She thinks she knows what he’s getting at, and she kisses him before he can say something uselessly self-depreciating, and he’s kissing her back a moment later, his left hand moving up to her neck, and when she moves back she breathes in —

“And how about,” she blurts, hoping that her fingers don’t start shaking, “how about we agree that if none of us has a clue of what the hell we should be doing we find a bed with _regular_ sheets and figure it out? I mean, it’s not like if I haven’t done it I haven’t _thought_ about it.”

“Oh, did you,” he says, smiling against her mouth, kissing her again, “so how about we discuss it someplace less sad than my sofa?”

“_Yes_,” she says, and a moment later he’s up and she’s up and they’re in his room and he’s kissing her savagely, his hand buried at the back of her head, and she turns so that he has his back against the door without even thinking and he moans into her mouth once, twice, and then kisses her _again_ and _again_, and it’s not like they haven’t made out like the teenagers they aren’t _now_ since they got together, but this —

This is different, and she can feel that he’s tentatively moving his right arm around her waist and so she puts it there herself before worrying about kissing him again instead, and the noise he makes as they part makes her blood rush downstairs, and a moment later she’s lost her jacket and he’s lost his and they’re stumbling towards the bed as he kicks off his shoes and she lets her flats fall to the ground after slipping off her underwear, and she — she supposes that she should lie down, that’s how it’s supposed to go, she figures, even if when she _thought_ about finally having sex with someone she wasn’t exactly lying _down_ —

But he ends up with his back on the mattress first and he doesn’t try to flip the two of them.

Huh.

She tentatively kneels on the bed, feeling thankful she wore the dress because she doesn’t have to waste time getting out of tight jeans and the likes, and he’s looking back up at her like he’s entirely fine with the current situation.

“You don’t want to —” She starts, not even knowing how to put it.

“Not particularly,” he says, “unless you’d rather —”

“No,” she interrupts, and wonders if she maybe was too quick to say it, but he seems… fairly happy at hearing it. “I’m just, I thought most guys like it better if, uh —”

“Case is,” he says, looking entirely too amused for his own good, “I should hope to be not _like most guys_, and other than liking it better like _this_, it almost never happened before, and this is the last time I’ll discuss _that_ if I’m in bed with you.”

She nods, leaning back down, kissing him again, feeling his beard under her palms and fingers as she tentatively straddles him, and then she moves back and just goes for it — she grabs the skirt of her dress and pulls it off, and now she’s just in the only bra she owns that’s not a sports one, a nowhere near remarkable white one without frills or anything, and for a moment she’s terrified to look down, but when she does he’s staring at her like his blood is rushing hot as much as hers, so she takes another breath, takes it off and throws it on the ground, and if she survives the next ten seconds she can survive anything, she thinks, and then he looks up at her like he absolutely has _not_ changed his mind.

Good.

Also, he’s _hasn’t_ lost clothing.

“I think,” she says, her shaking fingers reaching for his shirt, “that we’re not on an even footing here.”

“Never said you couldn’t level the battlefield,” he says, and she unbuttons the shirt quickly enough, not quite slipping it off his shoulders but enough to leave his chest on display, and — he jerks upwards into her touch when she runs her fingers over it, and she realizes that his nipples are stiff and he groans out loud when she twists one experimentally, and — okay. Okay, she can do this, she thinks, breathing in again, and then she moves a bit back, enough that her crotch touches his, and oh, _oh_ —

He’s hard, she realizes, and he hasn’t said anything about it, but when she palms his crotch through the denim of his jeans he lets out a moan that she’s sure people must have heard in the next room over, and she notices that he’s keeping a hand on her hip and his right arm is lying against his side and he’s obviously trying to not move it —

“You know,” she says, her fingers grasping his hip before she moves her hand to his waist, opening his jeans, “if I can touch, it goes both ways. With — well.” She nods towards his right arm. “I really don’t mind.”

She can see his throat working up and down as he slowly moves up the right arm.

“It’s — I mean, it’s not a problem if you _do_ mind,” he says.

“Except that I _don’t_,” she says before she grabs his wrist and puts it around her waist herself, and she can see his eyes take a darker tone of green as she does, and then he’s sitting up and kissing her as she works his jeans open — he raises his hips, slipping out of them, and wait, he wasn’t wearing underwear —

“I figured I’d save the both of us time,” he groans against her mouth a moment later, “oh, there are condoms in the first drawer, I should have said before —”

“And I thought _I_ was supposed to be worried,” she says, and then she kisses him again and then _she_ moans inside his mouth the moment his left hand cups her breast, and oh, it fits in his palm just _right_, and the moment he squeezes she’s not thinking that maybe he wouldn’t like it if her chest was too flat because _it doesn’t matter_, and she moves her hand up to the back of his head, grasping at his hair, and he moans in pleasure at that, and so she lets him touch while they kiss until she has to breathe, and when they part his cheeks are flushed and he’s staring up at her chest like he’s nowhere near done yet, except that she doesn’t really want him to go wanting and she can feel his cock press against her leg as he searches for friction, and —

Right. She’s _not_ going to think about how she’s never been so close to a naked guy before and she’ll focus on the fact that everyone has to start at some point.

She moves back a bit, looks down at him, and _oh_, he’s definitely hard under the trail of golden hair leading down to his dick, and —

She reaches down and touches him tentatively, her palm wrapped around him, and the noise he makes is definitely _not_ discouraging. “I’ve — just tell me what to do,” she says, figuring that she should follow his lead at least now.

“It’s fine,” he says, sounding like he can barely speak. “You don’t have to be that careful — I mean, it’s not going to fall down.”

She _has_ to laugh at that. “For — thanks, that was an image I could have absolutely done without.”

“You’re welcome, now — _fuck_,” he never finishes, because she’s tentatively given him a stroke, then one, then another, and he’s telling her that it’s _good_ and she can move her thumb under the head, and she does, and he jerks up against her, his hand grasping the small of her back now, and so she goes faster and _faster_ and then he’s moaning her name and spilling against her hand with his right arm holding on to her back and his left doing the same and she can barely think about how _she_ feels like she’ll come apart any moment because _shit she just made him come_ and he seems to have enjoyed it, and she can feel that the both of them are getting way beyond sweaty as she leans down and kisses him again, his back falling against the mattress as she straddles him again and cleans off her hand on her sheets before bringing it to his face again.

“Fuck,” he breathes when he finds his voice again, “that wasn’t very dignified.”

“… How?” She shakes her head, not getting what he means.

“I was hoping I’d last more, but —”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, as if now I’m going to judge you for _that_. It’s not like — I mean, I guess it meant I didn’t completely get it wrong, right?”

He laughs, his left hand moving to her inner thigh. “Far from it,” he says, “and I think that for this being _your_ first time, I’m not doing enough work.”

Then he nods towards her crotch and — oh. _Oh_.

She swallows, kneeling up, moving so that he can grab at her side and move his head in between her legs. And —

He doesn’t go for it _at once_. He nibbles at the inside of her left thigh first, then kisses it, then does it to the right thigh, too, until he’s kissing his way towards her opening, and when his tongue runs along its outer folds once she has to grab on to the headboard while trying to not scream out loud —

Except that then he does it again and _again_ and she can’t stop moaning his name and telling him that _yes_ this is exactly what she wants, and fuck but then his tongue is teasing her opening without actually sliding inside, and he’s teasing in a way that’s making her blood boil as he takes his sweet time, and by the time his mouth finally, _finally_ finds her clit she’s holding to the headboard so hard her knuckles are turning white, and _fuck_ but _this_ has nothing on her hand only, and she should tell him later, but now she’s too busy screaming his name and _yes_ and _go on_ —

And she doesn’t know how long he licks at her clit, but when he sucks on it lightly she about loses it and she comes harder than she ever has, and when she moves back so he can breathe he looks like he’s _entirely _satisfied with himself and like he enjoyed every damned moment of it, and she lets herself fall down on his right side, breathing in and out, and a moment later she’s kissed him again and he’s moaning into her mouth and she still feels like all of her blood is burning and rushing _down_ —

And she’s definitely not done yet.

“Well,” she says, “that was some excellent work.”

“Good,” he grins, “because I absolutely had a blast doing it. Wouldn’t mind doing it again, for that matter.”

“I won’t say no,” she blurts, “but — maybe after —”

“Moments when I wish _I_ was twenty all over again,” he says under his breath, but she can see that his dick is stirring, and —

Maybe —

“And who says I’m in a hurry? I waited for years, I think I can give you ten minutes,” she says, and then she moves her hand downwards again and he gasps as she starts jerking him off slowly again, moving closer so she can kiss him, her leg thrown around his, and he’s moaning into her mouth moments later —

She feels him growing harder under her fingers and she doesn’t let go until he’s halfway there and he tells her that maybe she should get that condom _now_, and right, good point — she reaches for the drawer, finds a packet, grabs one, tears plastic open figuring that he’d rather not use his teeth for it, and then she slides it over him and spares a moment to be relieved that she didn’t break it in the process.

When she looks back at him, his pupils are blown and his lips are parted and he’s staring at her chest, again, and — she can barely believe he’d want to, but —

She has no damned idea of where she finds the guts to ask outright but they got this far, she hasn’t worried about anything she was terrified she _would _be worrying about the moment they got naked, it’s ridiculous that she _wouldn’t_.

“You don’t have to just look,” she blurts, “if you want to do something.”

“But I _do_ enjoy looking,” he smiles, reaching up to cup her right breast again, “_very_ much.” He squeezes again and her grip on him falters but — but he’s hard again now, not as much as before but enough, she thinks, and so she moves back and at _that_ she can see his throat working up and down, up and down —

“If you’d rather switch —” she starts, but he shakes his head and tells her to go ahead and so she takes him in hand again and breathes in and oh _oh_ she’s doing it, she’s over him and she’s sliding down taking it slowly and he’s inside her and it’s not even that painful because she’s still wet, very much so, and she has to take a moment to adjust because in between what people said she had no idea what to expect exactly the first time (the general consensus in between the high school gossip was that the first time was painful and usually not that great anyway, not that _she_ ever was asked an opinion), but — it’s not painful. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s — she has to get adjusted, she thinks, and she breathes in and out for a bit, and she _can_ see that he’s trying to stay still and —

She tentatively moves back and down again, and he makes a noise that says all about how much _he_ is liking it. “Is — is it all right?” She asks.

“Fuck, you don’t — you have _no idea_,” he groans, “it’s _more_ than all right, take your time.”

“How I have no idea?”

“_Fuck_ —” He groans, his hand gripping her side, and she rolls her hips downwards, clenching around him experimentally, and — “_fuck_, yeah, just like that,” he goes on, and at this point it’s obvious he’s definitely liking it, so — she rolls her hips downwards a bit again, and it’s good but still not mind-blowing, but she supposes it’s fine, it’s —

Then he thrusts upwards slightly, just as she does it again, and she about screams.

“I see you’ve figured it out?” He asks, sitting up a bit, and then she moves back so he can hit that same spot he just did and _oh_, fuck, _yes_.

Not that it hadn’t worked when it was just herself, but like this it’s just — _different_, and so much better, and she doesn’t even bother replying, just moves an arm behind his shoulder because it’s obvious his left is shaking and he can’t exactly prop himself up with the right, and then she tries to go faster as she figures out how to move, and a moment later his mouth is on her right breast where he had been staring at before and she about screams again because it feels _good_, and she can’t give a damn about how they’re not moving at the same time nor doing that kind of synchronized dance you see in movies —

But it doesn’t matter because it feels so good she could burst, and he’s murmuring that he’s close and she _is_, too, and this time _she_ comes first, clenching around him hard enough that he screams in pleasure the moment she does, and he follows just as she moves his head back and kisses him as he does, and for once it feels _good_ that her shoulders are larger and her arms _that_ strong because otherwise she couldn’t have held him up this close and she thinks she likes it better than she’d have liked it if they hadn’t been kissing.

Then she’s screaming his name all over again and she stops thinking about anything that’s not how _good_ it feels, and she doesn’t know how long later they’re both lying on the mattress grinning at each other like the teenagers they definitely aren’t anymore.

“All right,” she says when she’s caught her breath, “that — was worth waiting for.”

“Oh, _was it_,” he says, kissing her again, then moving back, “if I run into that asshole again I’m definitely telling him that he’s missing out.”

“Come on, now _that_ might be a little excessive —”

He shakes his head, his ankle tangling with hers. “No,” he says, “I mean, you deserved way better than _average_ all things considered —”

“It sure as hell was _not_ average,” she protests.

“Yeah, well, good to hear it, but you did most of the work and I liked every damned second of it, and I also am told that the more time one practices the better it gets, and if the list of idiots who asked you out on a bet had no idea of what they were missing… better for me,” he finishes, and then his mouth is on hers again and he dragged her on top of him again and he’s saying that he’s not done if she’s not, and —

No, she thinks, she’s _definitely_ not done because now she wants to see how much they can actually improve on it before they both are too tired to move.

But — she thinks she should make one thing clear.

“Hey, uh, before we get too over in our heads for serious talking,” she blurts, her hand going to his wrist, running her fingertips over the scarred skin where his hand should have been, and he groans at that, and so she does it again, “I know you were worried about making plans and whatnot, but I would have been fine with just — doing it with someone I _wanted_, not about the silk sheets or whatever. It was perfect, all right?”

“Even if there’s room for improvement?”

“I’d be worried if there wasn’t,” she says, and then he says something about _really_ wanting to taste her again as he slides on his knees to the floor and —

Her fingers tremble slightly as she touches his hair right as he moves his head in between her legs and his tongue touches her right there _again_, and —

And then she realizes she hasn’t thought for a single moment about how undesirable she might have been since she threw away her underwear before.

“Hey,” she says before she goes beyond actually putting two coherent sentences together, “remind me later that — I have to tell you a few things.”

He moves back slightly. “If it’s important —”

“No, it’s — nothing that can’t wait.” He nods, diving back in, and then his tongue is on her clit _again_ and she’s telling him that _yes, please he should do it again_ and he does, and —

Later, she _will_ tell him — considering what he was saying _before_ they even got naked, maybe he should know, and not just because she thinks he’d like to hear it but because he should know, period, but — but not now.

For now, she thinks she’ll worry about enjoying every damned second of this, and about making sure _he_ does as well because she knows that as much as she couldn’t have believed _this_ would be her life a year ago, he probably thinks the same for different reasons.

So it would be the least if they spend the next two hours without worrying about anything else, and that’s exactly what she intends to do.

— —

She doesn’t know how long it has been, but Jaime’s sheets are wrecked and she’s half-sure that neither of them could do anything more than lift a finger, as it is right now.

“Hey,” she says, deciding to do it now while she’s still high on how _good_ it felt and she can’t think about it twice, “I just — I need to tell you something.”

“All right,” he says, sitting up, “shoot. Hopefully not that you regret —”

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “obviously _not_. I just — right. Listen, when Tormund asked you the infamous virginity question, it was a while after I turned him down and he told me the way it happened wasn’t healthy. He was right, don’t get ready to burn your t-shirt.”

“Hm. He was?”

“I laughed in his face because I thought no one could legit be interested in me, _he was_. Anyway. I, uh, after that I realized he had a point, so I went to a therapist about that and I’m still going, but — I spent months trying to make peace with my looks. Or how I have issues with the way other people see me. And the likes. And the only thing I was terrified about when it came to having sex with _you_ and not anyone else was that I’d spend the entire time worrying I wasn’t… well, enough. I stopped the moment I threw out my clothes. And while I want to think it was also because I spent months groveling over it, I’m pretty sure that it being with _you_ and not anyone else was at least half of it, so if you were worrying about being… not adequate or whatever you were worrying about before, don’t, all right?”

His fingers were already wrapped around hers, but at _that_ he holds her hand tighter and when she looks back at him he moves closer — he lets her fingers go, moves his left to her face and she reaches out for his right arm without even thinking about it.

“Well, I guess I’m going to have to thank the guy whose team I’m apparently on regardless on how much I’d rather not be,” he says, and she _has_ to laugh at that, “but — I mean, I could tell you that I was scared shitless of going for it because — I don’t really want to talk about we know who, but I _did_ spend half of my life hearing her say I was never enough for whatever she was expecting most of the time and after _that_,” he nods towards the hand, “she didn’t even want to look at me regardless of whether we were done or not. And I stopped worrying about _that_ about five minutes into it, so I’m really glad you weren’t worrying about your looks which by the way I’m _very much_ into, but — there was that, too.”

She nods, words momentarily failing her, and so she just kisses him again, marveling that she _can_ do it this freely, moving an arm around his waist, and she has a feeling that the both of them aren’t absolutely near the end point of the marathon when it comes to their issues, but —

“Seems to me,” she says, “that we’re both in dire need of sorting baggage out.”

“Can’t disagree with that.”

“So maybe we can do it together?” She asks, and it’s easier than she’d have thought —

“Can’t imagine a better prospect,” he says against her mouth, “_after_ I ask you if your guy has open spots, because I don’t _really_ want to become the kind of person who decides his girlfriend is his free therapist.”

She laughs, nods, moves closer, “I don’t know if he does or if he _could_ given the circumstances, but I can ask him a referral. In case he can, I can assure you he’s good. But I’m not so sure I want to discuss my therapist in bed just _now_.”

“Right. I don’t discuss my sister, you don’t discuss your therapist if we’re fucking, it has to be a step forward when it comes to doing away with baggage, right?”

She laughs, unable to keep it in, and he does, too, and —

Maybe he does have a point.

She thinks she’s looking forward to do away with both of their baggages.

She thinks she really is.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who might be interested: the deal with _Songs for Orphans_ is that it was never released properly anywhere and the aforementioned '05 bootleg was the only live version of that song since 1973, and only die hard Bruce people actually know it exists. The Uniondale NYE concert is just That Epic instead. ;)
> 
> Other than that: I hope you enjoyed this last piece for these series which I'm exceedingly glad to have wrapped up (it was a question of honor!) and that it was a worthy conclusion to the spite feast. There'll be more spite outside the series most likely but this is the end of this one round. It's been an honor spiteficcing with you all. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Learning Better](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479188) by [VanessaWolfie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanessaWolfie/pseuds/VanessaWolfie)


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